


Before I Take My Flesh Away

by Orig1n



Category: The Time Traveler's Wife - Audrey Niffenegger, The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, American Civil War, Angst, Bamon, Canon-Typical Violence, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Multiple, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Slow Burn, Supernatural Elements, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-23 05:39:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 95,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3756472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orig1n/pseuds/Orig1n
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Damon has known her his entire life. He knows the old scar on her right knee is from tripping on a jagged rock in his father's gardens, as a girl. He knows that particular, vibrant shade of green her eyes flash when she's furious with him. He knows that she's better than he deserves. And Damon knows she always leaves.</p>
<p>But they're bound somehow, by some kind of magic that transcends time and reason. She's his personal ghost, and Damon doesn't know if he's been blessed or cursed.</p>
<p>Inspired by the novel, "The Time Traveler's Wife".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Fey Girl

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Of an Arcane Binding](https://archiveofourown.org/works/778809) by [Salvia_G](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salvia_G/pseuds/Salvia_G). 



> I own nothing. The concept is based off of "The Time Traveler's Wife" by Audrey Niffenegger. 
> 
> Title comes from the lyrics of the song, Flesh (DJ Tiësto Mix):
> 
>  
> 
> _Heaven is forbidden_  
>  _But I'm going soon_  
>  _Kiss me one last time_  
>  _Before I take my flesh away_
> 
>  
> 
> Do enjoy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lily Salvatore receives a strange visit from a little girl at her birthing bed.

 

 

 

 

Lily Salvatore screamed. Dark curls of hair plastered to her forehead, everything seemed to cling too close to her as her chest heaved with labored breaths. Between her legs, a midwife and a doctor worked franticly as another painful contraction seized her body. Shouting out, Lily bit off her cries and ground her teeth together with such strength, she feared her teeth would shatter. Nearby, a young nurse fanned Lily while another patted her forehead with a damp towel that wasn’t nearly cool enough to provide any relief.

“Enough!” Lily barked at the useless man between her legs, who called himself a doctor. Men were scarcely allowed into a birth room and Lily was beginning to see why, “I am at my wit’s _end_. Call for Hagar!” She gasped as the child within her twisted.

“But Madame, that is highly inappropriate, your husband has already provided—”

“I don’t care!” Lily snarled as her pale blue eyes snapped open to glare at the doctor, “Fetch her from the slave quarters; she’s delivered countless children for her sisters, which is more than you can say— !” She cried, before dissolving into another scream as the doctor rushed from the room, reluctantly obedient.

As Lily fell against the pillows propping her up on the bed, she closed her eyes and prayed. Already it had been hours since her labor had started, and she knew she would not last for much longer. Within her womb, raging to get out, was her first child. As the heat of the humid summer outside seeped into the house, Lily wondered if children were always so difficult to have. If she would even live to see if her child would be as just as difficult to raise.

“Please.” She muttered hoarsely, delirious, “ _Please_ , my child. Come out for me...”

A flurry of motion outside the room caught her ear as the doctor and a woman hurried inside. When Lily opened her weary eyes, she recognized the old, lined face of Hagar, one of the kitchen servants of her husband’s estate. Watching as the woman rolled up her sleeves and pushed Lily’s thighs father apart, the dark brown of her skin contrasted against the pale white of Lily’s own.

“Mistress Lily,” The woman’s rich, textured voice washed over Lily like warm smoke, “I’m gonna need you to breath steady.” She instructed, her voice casually confident in a way that soothed Lily’s frazzled nerves.

Measuring her breaths, Lily did as she was told, trying to ignore the pain. Focusing on inhaling and exhaling, Lily’s wide eyes looked to Hagar for further instruction.

“Your baby needs air, you are his air.” Hagar soothed, “Now when I say so, Mistress, you gotta push with all you have. Your boy needs you.”

“Boy?” Lily gasped, racked with pain as a thread of her mind wondered how this slave knew she would have a son. Hagar’s rough, callused palm rested like a cool weight on the feverish skin above Lily’s womb. Lily watched as the slave woman closed her dark eyes and concentrated as her lips formed foreign words, whispering strange things under her breath. Lily was about to ask what she was doing before a contraction gripped her insides like an iron vice— stealing all breath from her lungs.

 _“Push_ now, Mistress!” Hagar demanded, her brown eyes alight.

And push Lily did, screaming with such primal force, the nurses at her side jumped. Sweat slid from her forehead into her eyes, stinging them as tears escaped the corners and fell down her face. She was _splitting_ in two, she was _sure_ of it. Her husband would have to bury her in halves.

But suddenly, she felt her child shift forward, the large head slip out of her as the rest of the small body followed. Lilly ignored the collective intake of breath at the foot of her bed as she closed her eyes, scarcely able to believe her baby had been delivered. Opening her eyes and blinking the tears from them, her blurred vision cleared as she saw Hagar shushing the young nurses and cleaning her baby off. Someone cut the umbilical cord, yet Lily's eyes could only focus on the small babe in the brown hands of Hagar. 

“Is—” Lily gasped, smiling weakly, catching her breathe as the slave woman brought her child closer, “Is it—?”

Within moments, the ear-splitting cries of the baby broke forth. _Alive_. The cries meant her child was _alive._

 _“He_ is fine, Mistress.” Hagar reassured, her low voice steady as she handed the child to his mother with a smile on her lined face, “He is well formed and a healthy babe, if I ever saw one.”

“A _son_.” Lily breathed in gentle awe as she cradled the child to her chest, looking into his small, screaming red face for the first time, “I have a _son.”_

He squirmed in his wrappings, like being held in one place was too much to bear, his wide, impossibly blue eyes flitting from one thing to another ceaselessly. Upon his head laid a mop of wet, thick black hair—like her. The child looked so much like herself that Lily’s chest ached to watch him wriggle.

Her blood still stained parts of him, and Lily smiled as she soothed his cries with a gentle voice, wiping away the blood around his mouth with a fingertip. She would have thought it macabre for her son to be stained with so much of her blood, had she not been so full of joy at the sight of him. After all, the little babe had been feeding from her for nine months now, hadn’t he?

“Thank you.” She breathed, looking up at Hagar, the brightness of her smile undimmed by the weariness around her eyes, “I have a son thanks to you.”

Looking upon the elderly slave woman, her skin wrinkled from the harsh Virginia sun and age, Lily’s pretty features were alive with genuine gratitude

The corner of Hagar’s mouth turned upwards as she went to the window and opened it wide, filling the room with white sunshine and a gentle summer breeze that cleared the stale smell of birthing fluids, sweat and blood from the air.

From the corner of the room, the doctor finally surged forward from his silent observation, voice indignant, “No, _no._ You cannot open the windows, the outside air and the sunshine will make the babe ill!”

Hagar snorted and leveled the man with a disbelieving stare, “Show me a child that ever got sick from fresh air, and I'll eat my apron.”

Sharp disgust filtered across the man’s harried expression as he looked down at the slave woman, “And what medical school certified you, negress?”

“That is quite enough, doctor.” Lily said quietly, but with undeniable authority, “Surely a little fresh air will not damage my son too severely.”

The loud sound of the man’s voice had upset her new son, sending his cries to new heights as Lily Salvatore raised her legs for the nurses to remove the birthing sheets for cleaning. Sending a sharp look the doctor’s way, Lily’s lips thinned.

The doctor turned to face Lily as he regarded her with poorly veiled disdain. Lily recognized  that look in most society men. She saw it every time she opened her mouth to  give her opinion on matters they thought above her. But most of all, she saw that look every time she looked into the eyes of her husband.

“Madame, this is _highly_ unorthodox—” he began, his tone irritating as it was patronizing.

“I thank you for your services.” Lily cut him off, arching her dark brow as if daring him to question her, “It has been a long and difficult day for all of us, I think. My husband will ensure you are generously compensated for your time. The nurses will be glad to show you to his office.”

It was an order that brooked no complaint, and Lily watched, quietly satisfied, as the doctor's eyes widened behind his spectacles, his face flushing. Her cool eyes followed him as he marched out of the room with as much dignity as he could, summarily dismissed. The young nurses filed out behind him, taking with them the soiled sheets and various instruments the doctor forgot to collect in his embarrassment. Only Hagar lingered behind, a strange kind of peace settling about the room.

Left to deal with her son’s crying, Lily shushed him gently, rocking him against her as she looked down into his angelic little face, contorted in his weeping. Silently, Lily thanked whatever power had granted her the chance to see her son, alive. It was no secret that even here, in proper civilization, motherhood was the most dangerous threat to a woman’s life. Already, Lily had lost many friends to childbirth. If fortunate, sometimes the child survived, sometimes not. Giving life was a risky affair, and it was no small aid Hagar had given to her.

“Hagar,” Lily said quietly, not taking her eyes from her newborn son, even as she spoke, “What can I do to repay you? Name any boon within my power, and I will grant it.”

Wordlessly, the slave woman came from the window and stood up next to the bed beside Lily, looking into the face of her little son. What Lily imagined the woman saw there, she could not say, for Lily would never know what it would be like to look into the face of a child, with the knowledge that one day he would own her.

“I ask nothing.” Hagar said after minutes of ponderous silence, her voice heavy with consideration. Lily opened her mouth to protest when the slave woman held up her calloused palm to quiet her. Her own mouth snapped shut with sheer surprise at the woman’s boldness, but Lily held her peace, waiting.

“Only,” the slave woman continued, “that you teach him kindness. Compassion.” She said, swallowing as she looked into the paleness of his blue eyes, his irises ringed with darkness.

Lily frowned, looking up into the face of her husband’s kitchen slave.

“Hagar…” She whispered, hoping her voice would not show the pity she was feeling.

“One day your son will be Master to my grandchildren, Mistress.” Hagar nodded her dark head, her hair half grey.

And Lily understood. Cruelty was not one of her husband’s traits, often, but to the slaves of other households, they were mere playthings to the whims of their owners. Those of higher society turned blind eyes to the things that went on behind the doors of the estates, but change was in the air. Lily could feel it. But it would only begin if the children learned of love. Of kindness.

Rocking her son, Lily turned away from Hagar, her smile slightly sad as she nodded, as if promising herself something.

“Yes.” She whispered, her gentle breathe tickling her son’s nose, “Yes, he will know kindness. As long as I live, he will not mistreat your kin or your kind, Hagar. I promise.”

Satisfied, Hagar nodded as she retreated to the door, “I will fetch Master Giuseppe.”

And then with a rustle of skirts, Lily was left alone with her son. Letting her eyes wander about the richly decorated room, most of the furniture had been moved or relocated to make space for the birthing bed and the various people involved in childbirth. But even without such furnishings, the polished wood floors and the high, arching ceiling gave away the grandeur of the Salvatore Estate. Lily was comforted that her son would want for nothing in this place. Nothing would be denied him.

Except perhaps...

Weary, Lily sighed as she blinked slowly. She was rocking her son when a sudden movement caught her eye, in the shadows near the red drapes of the window. Instantly alert, Lily sat straight, clutching her baby tighter to her as she narrowed her eyes, looking into the shadows.

“Who is there?” she demanded, feeling her heart beat just a bit faster.

Moments passed amidst a tense silence, before Lily saw the intruder reveal herself. Stepping out from behind the corner drapes, Lily’s eyes widened of their own accord as she blinked rapidly, unable to tell if what she was seeing was real—or perhaps just a delirium brought on by the overexertion of childbirth.

For there stood a girl of dark skin, of no more than five years of age—completely naked and uncaring of it. Her dark hair was cut short at an odd length , just above her shoulders, and gently curled in a way Lily had never seen in a slave.

They stared at each other, unspeaking, before Lily regained her footing.

“Child, what are you doing here? Did you follow Hagar in here?” She asked, wondering how she could have missed a naked child hiding near the drapes. Then again, she was giving birth, and little details like that were wont to slip past her attention. Perhaps the girl was a child of one of the household slaves, and had wandered in by mistake. Yet Lily remembered seeing no such girl amongst the Salvatore slave children.

The little girl shook her head, her wide eyes jumping from Lily, to the squalling baby, and back up again. The waves of her hair seemed wet, as if she had been bathing recently.

“Come here, child.” Lily called, watching as the girl hesitated for a brief moment, before curiosity got the better of her and she approached on light steps. The little brown girl walked like the floor might crack and fall through if she stepped too hard, until she came up beside Lily, looking up into her eyes without fear.

Lily was taken aback. Slaves rarely made eye contact with the free men of society, least of all their masters. Even when speaking, Lily had seen them avert their eyes to the side—an act of deference. This little girl, it seemed, had never been taught such fear. Closer now, Lily realized the child’s watchful little eyes were a lovely shade of green, almost luminous with something fey. Her dark skin, a shade or two lighter than that of Hagar’s, was yet unblemished—untouched by the drying sun or the scars of harsh discipline. Idly, Lily wondered about the girl’s parentage.

“He looks like a raisin.”

The child’s voice abruptly brought Lily out of her reverie, and she found herself blinking down at the strange little girl.

“I beg your pardon?” Lily asked, confused as to just what a _‘raisin’_ was.

“A raisin.” The little girl repeated, as if Lily were the one who were confusing, her voice light and girlish in the way all children’s were at that age, “You know, like a grape if you leave it out in the sun too long.” The girl clarified, shrugging, bobbing up and down on the balls of her bare feet.

Unbidden, Lily laughed at loud. The wholly unexpected comparison brought her a kind of strange delight. All of this was so odd.

“Yes.” Lily agreed, sparing a glance at her child, who had paused in his crying, as if to hear to sound of his mother’s laughter in its purity, “Yes I suppose he does look like a little prune.” She giggled, willing to overlook what could be seen as rudeness.

The little girl continued to stare down at her son, her eyes wide and her small nose wrinkled in childlike disgust. Meanwhile, her son had managed to take his eyes off his mother and turned them to the naked girl by the bed, distracted, when he suddenly sneezed.

The unexpected sound startled a small squeak from the brown girl, which startled Lily’s son into fits of crying once more. As he screamed his displeasure, Lily had to admit that her son had a strong pair of lungs on him. Yet Lily could not find it within herself to mind, just yet. She suspected she would tire of his powerful squalling soon, but that time had not yet come. Now, Lily was still glowing with the joy of new motherhood.

Still smiling, Lily rocked her son and looked down at girl, “He is a prune now, but all newborns are like this. One day, he will be a little boy—and then a man.”

The little girl only stared on, dubious at best, as she idly chewed on a finger. It struck Lily then, that she did not know who she was.

“Child, what is your name?”

Instantly, the girl’s expression brightened, as if Lily had finally said something she knew how to answer.

“Bonnie.” She said in a rush, her little heart-shaped face flushing with pride, “Bonnie Bennett.”

Bennett? Lily knew of no Bennetts that resided in Mystic Falls. A furrow formed between Lily’s dark brows as things grew increasingly curious.

“Are you…” Lily paused, lips thinning as she looked over the naked little girl, who looked less and less like an escapee from the Richmond slave market, and more like strange woodland sprite from the stories Lilly had heard as a child.

“Are you a ghost?” Lily asked.

At that, the little girl giggled, the sound like the bubbling of a small brook in the forest, before she raised a small brown hand to cover the charming little gap in her front teeth.

And just as suddenly as she had appeared, the girl vanished, leaving only her laughter behind.

Lily was still staring at the space the girl—Bonnie—had stood, when her husband rushed in through the door, the heels of his boots clicking hurriedly against the wood floor.

“How is he, how is my son?” Giuseppe’s deep voice shot through Lily’s surprised daze, his tone edging on almost nervous, if she had ever heard him. A part of her newly filled heart sank, just a bit, knowing that her husband did not care enough to ask of her own health.

Her husband arrived at her bedside in a flurry of motion, his arms outstretched—wordlessly demanding his son. Lily shook her head to clear away any images of little girls, before she looked up at his imposing figure, her blue eyes taking in his grey, fitted sack coat, not even unfastened in the summer heat. Looking upon his stern but handsome face, Lily searched for a trace of affection in his expression, as she reluctantly parted with her newborn son. She had hoped a child, a son, would help crack Giuseppe’s hard exterior, and melt his unyielding heart.

But as she watched the man hold his newborn son in his large hands, with clinical delicacy, lifting the babe’s wrappings here and there to see with his own eyes the fruits of his investments, Lily knew her hopes had been for naught. Inside, she felt a part of her heart crack, just a little.

If the summer heat could not even get to Giuseppe, what chance did a naked babe have? Gathering her voice, Lily’s matched the stern tone of her husband. And if she blinked rapidly to clear any sign of weakness from her eyes, well…the breeze often brought dirt and dust to the eyes, did it not?

 _“Damon._ Is fine, Giuseppe. Our son is healthy.”

Giuseppe’s green-brown eyes glanced down at his wife, her hair in disarray and sweat still shining upon her forehead. Still, tired as she no doubt was, Lily met his gaze head on.

“You have chosen a name for him? Without consulting me?” He asked, tone level as he handed the babe back to his wife. Bending low, a lock of his brown hair fell loose from his pomade slicked style, hanging in his eyes until he pushed it aside with a swift hand.

Lily did not look at him as she embraced her son once more, his soft gurgling pure music to her ears.

“Damon is a good name.” She asserted gently, “It means _tame_.” Lily explained as she ran caressed his soft cheek with a fingertip. Damon’s face did strange jumps as his little fists flailed about before, by chance, his little hand caught Lily’s slender finger, gripping it tight in his frail fist. Lily beamed down at him, before she bothered to look back up at Giuseppe, who watched the exchange with a careful eye. Lily’s voice was soft, but laced with steel.

“Your firstborn will be what you teach him to be, Giuseppe, tame and clay at your fingers. Is that not what you have always dreamed of?”

Lily watched as her husband looked down upon her, swallowing his words before they would form. After a moment, Lily watched him nod in silent approval, her victory sealed. Appealing to the Salvatore ideal of a dutiful, responsible, code of conduct never ceased to bear fruit, for Lily. Her husband was far too attached to that dream to ever deny it.

“Then, I will leave you and…Damon to rest.” Giuseppe said, almost haltingly as he tried the name, before he bowed shallowly at the waist, “I will send for the wet nurse.”

And then he was gone, but Lily had already turned all her attention back to her son— _her Damon._ She rocked him gently, his pale skin showing the healthy flush of his cheeks. Leaning down, she pressed her lips to his forehead in a gentle kiss. When she closed her eyes, her lashes fanning low to tickle his skin, Lily inhaled the scent of her child. It was feather light and barely there, but lingered in her nose nonetheless. Breathing, she let Damon’s newborn scent replace what guilt was left in her lungs, for the small lie she had told her husband.

“You, my son,” Lily whispered lowly, just for his ears, “ _You_ will tame the world.” She promised, turning her face to rest her cheek lightly on his dark head of hair.

“No one will tame you, until you wish it, my son. My Damon.”

Briefly, Lily’s mind turned to the strange little creature that had appeared at the hour of her son’s birth and wondered what the strange visit meant.

 

* * *

 

Bonnie found herself back in the little, blue kiddie pool, sitting atop her pink swimsuit. As a green, rubber alligator floated past her, Bonnie blinked. One moment she had been looking into the water, playing with her toys, and the next she had been standing naked in a big, strange room, where a woman had screamed and _screamed_ until a wrinkly baby had appeared. Now she was back in her pool.

And she was naked again.

Behind her, the sound of the sliding door opening startled Bonnie into turning, her butt squeaking loudly on the wet vinyl of the pool. In the doorway, Bonnie spotted her mother, and her green eyes bugged.

“Bonnie Bennett!” Her mother shouted, exasperated, “What have I told you about taking off your bathing suit and swimming without it?”

In her head, Bonnie swore she would never daydream weird things again.

 

* * *

 

Lily Salvatore walked up the steps with precise movements, letting her loose grip of her powder blue skirts fall from her hands when she reached the top of the staircase. She had long put the distant memory away of that odd little, fey girl who had visited on the day of her son’s birth. The dark curls of the woman’s hair were piled atop her head in a fashionable bun, secured by a clip Giuseppe had commissioned for her from France. It was a charming little gift that Lily wore when she went to town, and as she made her way to the nursery, the little lacquer roses upon it glinted in the sunlight, streaming in through the large windows of the house. Her steps were almost silent as she walked across the Persian carpet lining the floor, turning the knob to the nursery door.

“Bilhah, darling, is Damon finished?” Lily questioned lightly as she stepped into the room, her skirts rustling softly as she closed the door behind her with a click. At the window stood the slave, Bilhah, Damon’s wet nurse. In her thin, brown arms, she held Damon close to her as the boy, now a toddler, suckled at her teat

The slave girl turned and dropped a small curtsy, a polite smile on her young face as she readjusted Damon’s weight upon her hip, half of her chest uncovered for the young master to drink from.

“Just finishing up, Mistress.” She said, looking down fondly at the round, little boy in her arms. He wore a little green dress that was made for him, amongst others, to be worn until Damon was old enough to be breeched. Until he was toilet-trained, Damon would wear his dresses.

As the dark haired boy spotted his mother, he smiled, his nurse’s breast dropping from his mouth as he laughed.

“Mother!” He squealed, his pale eyes brightening as he held out his arms. Lily swept him from Bilhah’s arms and into her own embrace as she pressed her nose into the crook neck , smiling as she did so.

“Damon, my son, have you been good while I was away?” she asked, pulling back to look at him, her voice warm and full of doting affection.

Damon nodded proudly, his mop of black hair curling at his ear. Lily watched him blink, his thick lashes as long as a cow’s. And that he was—Lily’s little calf.

Bilhah watched mother and son as she always did, quiet like and off to the side. With Bilhah, Mister Damon acted like the world was ending every time his mother left with his father to go into town for business. He would scream and cry, and pound his fists into the wooden floor until they were red. Bilhah would stand and watch him, as she always did, to make sure his tantrums never went too far. And in her pocket, she’d taken to secreting away soft butterscotch squares, to reward him for good behavior—but only if he was very good.

And every time his mother came home, Mister Damon would laugh and smile like he hadn’t seen Mistress Lily in years.

“Mister Damon used the toilet today, Mistress.” Bilhah informed Lily, watching as Mister Damon flung his arms around his mother’s neck and refused to let go as she spun him around.

The smile his beautiful mother turned on Mister Damon was breath-taking, and it was a smile Bilhah knew Mistress Lily seldom took outside this room.

“Really now?” Lily asked her son as he touched her lightly rouged cheeks with his fat fingers, “Your father will be pleased.”

Lily patted Damon’s round bottom and indeed, the cotton diaper was dry.

“Little Mister Damon also—” Bilhah started to say, but stopped, abruptly.

Lily glanced over at the wet nurse, confused as to why she had stopped talking, before she noticed the slave girl’s wide, brown eyes were riveted to the opposite end of the room, her face drained of all color.

“What is it…?” Lily asked, eyes narrowed as she turned to look at what could render the girl speechless.

Near the door, the little brown girl had appeared, naked as she had been before. She sat on the rug, as if she had always been there, her little hands raised above the ground, as if she had been grasping something. Like flowers.

Lily blinked, “Child. Bonnie Bennett.” She breathed quietly as Damon held unnaturally still in her arms, “You are returned.”

Sparing a glance at Bilhah, the poor girl looked like she was about to faint from fear, trembling like a leaf. Lily leaned towards her, pressing a calming hand to the girl’s shoulder.

“Calm now, Bilhah. It is just a child.” She whispered, turning her blue gaze back to the girl—Bonnie.

The little girl was sitting on the rug, looking around her before her green eyes met Lily’s gaze. Bonnie’s brows jerked upwards.

“It’s my daydream, again. From two weeks ago.” She said, musing aloud.

Damon shifted in her arms but Lily paid him no mind.

“It has been nearly three years in Mystic Falls, Bonnie.” Said Lily, so many questions in her eyes. Where was this girl from? Did she come from a place where time did not move? Bonnie still looked as she had when Lily had first laid eyes on her, the glossy waves of her hair still cut at a strange length that was not fashionable amongst free-women _or_ slave women.

Her thin legs unfurling from beneath her, Bonnie knelt and stood, her arms swinging idly at her sides as she looked from Lily to Damon on her hip.

“Is that the raisin?” Bonnie asked, seeming to recognize the little boy—though she seemed to be confused as to why he was wearing a dress.

Despite herself, Lily smiled as she stepped nearer to Bonnie, “Yes, this is him. His name is Damon.”

“Damon.” Bonnie said, her little mouth forming the words like it was a strange, new sweet to try, “He’s a lot bigger.”

Lily nodded, “As I once said, babes grow to be little boys. Much time has passed since you were last here, child.”

Bonnie seemed to think that over as she wandered closer, her gaze still wary of the other girl in the room, Bilhah. Yet she did not let it bother her too much, Bonnie's gaze positively aglow in it's open curiosity. More than anything, she seemed to be quite taken with the blue lace gown Lily wore, that flared dramatically at her hips.

“Are you a princess?” the girl asked, a dark finger playing with the little point of her chin. Whatever was running through her bright little mind, the girl seemed to think that dresses made royalty.

Lily laughed, “Not quite.” She replied warmly, stepping closer to the little girl, “My name is Lily Salvatore.”

“Like the flower.” The girl responded, her words phrased almost like a question.

“Like the flower.” Lily confirmed, finally close enough to Bonnie that the girl stood at her skirts, her dark head only coming up to Lily’s thigh, “Would you like to see Damon, now?”

Bonnie nodded, her wavy locks bouncing.

Kneeling, Lily gently placed her son onto the floor, before the little girl. He was utterly unwilling to let go of his mother, so Lily allowed him to cling to her dress with one fist as he wobbled on his feet—clearly uncomfortable with the strange girl that had just popped into his nursery. His face scrunched up like he didn't know whether to cry or to shout.

“Hello, Damon.” Bonnie greeted, polite.

“I am…” Damon muttered, his blue eyes confused as he fixated on what he had first heard the girl say, “I am _not_ raisin.” He protested weakly, unable to care that the girl had no clothes.

Bonnie tilted her head down, to look eye-level with the toddler. He wasn’t wrinkly anymore like she remembered.

“No. You’re just fat, now.” She said, honestly.

“I am _not fat!”_ Damon shouted as he pushed off his mother and lost balance, toppling into the girl. She fell back with a squawk as Lily rushed forward to pull her son off her, frowning at her son's unusual behavior.

_What_ had gotten into him? He was normally such a gentle-mannered, little boy. As she straightened her son’s dress, Lily heard his breaths come quickly, his blue eyes bright with childish anger. It was likely Damon not even know what ‘fat’ meant, but in the way that all children were, any word he had not accepted for himself simply did not exist.

Bonnie crouched onto her feet, her bruised elbows throbbing. She drew her tiny brows together and frowned at his clumsy assault.

“You’re fat and _mean._ ” She hissed at him, her green eyes brimming with unshed tears.

Staring, Damon seemed to notice the wetness in her eyes, but before he could do anything more than blink, the girl was gone.

Lily watched as her son whipped his head back and forth, trying to find where Bonnie had disappeared to, unable to yet understand that she was not hiding from him. She was simply _gone_. It was so strange, her appearances and disappearances. Like magic…

As her son started to cry at her knees, Lily turned to look at Bilhah from over her shoulder. The slave nurse looked even more confused than her little son, and a great deal more terrified. Slumping to sit upon the ground, Bilhah’s muslin skirts crumpled in a disorderly fashion, but she looked like she hardly cared.

“Bilhah.” Lily said, her tone of voice gentle but determined, watching as the girl’s attention shifted back to her Mistress, “My husband will not hear of this, understood?”

There was no need to bother her husband with the supernatural visits she'd had, thus far, with the girl called "Bonnie Bennett".Giuseppe would only meddle needlessly, or worse yet, call in a fleet of priests to exorcise the house of demonic possession.

The girl nodded mutely, the wrap around her head slightly damp with nervous sweat, "Y-yes, Mistress." Bilhah answered in a tremulous voice. Yet, after a beat of silence, the wet-nurse braved a hesitant question.

"Is it..is it a spirit?" She whispered, voice cracking.

Lily gave her a small smile that she hoped was comforting.

“Just a girl.” Lily reassured her, “A very odd girl.” She said quietly, almost to herself, before she turned her attention to Damon, who was still crying—for what, she could not imagine.

“Come now, Damon dear.” Lily cooed gently as she lifted him up into her arms, only to notice that his bottom was surprisingly, damp and warm.

Lily sighed.

 

* * *

 

When Bonnie got back, she was sitting in the field of flowers she had been taken from, atop the crumpled folds of her yellow, polka dot dress. On the ground next to her, laid the half-eaten sandwich she had been holding when she had left.

Across from her, Grams dropped her picnic plate and said a bad word.

Bonnie giggled.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! As stated above, the beginning of this story is heavily inspired by Salvia_G's story, "Of an Arcane Binding", but I promise, the similarities end there.


	2. Ghost on the Phone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonnie gets a glimpse into her future.

 

 

 

Outside the Bennett house, the sun had set. Crickets began their nightly song as the twilight wind coaxed the long grass to sway to its whim. From the back patio step, Bonnie lifted her face to watch the large clouds above slide slowly over to the horizon, clinging desperately to the last pink blush of the sun.

Inside, the house was less peaceful.

“I can’t accept this, Ma, this isn’t supposed to happen! Not to Bonnie. _Not_ to my baby girl.” She heard her mother say. They’d told her to go outside while they talked about “adult things”. Bonnie didn’t tell them that they’d forgotten to close the kitchen window. Sitting on the sun warmed patio, Bonnie tongued the plastic straw between her lips as she sucked from her juice box.

“It’s out of our hands, Abby.” Her Grams said, the rich timbre of her voice so different from her mother’s, “You know that this magic is beyond us.”

_“Bullshit!”_

Bonnie had already laughed at her Grams when she had said a bad word at lunch. Hearing her mom say a bad word was different. Bonnie looked down the grass and watched an ant crawl across the nail of her big toe. She didn’t feel like laughing now.

“Abby Bennett, you will get a hold of yourself!” her Grams shouted sternly, voice hard. Bonnie blinked out into the growing night, eyes wide. She had never heard her Grams raise her voice before—especially at her mother.

Bonnie heard her mom sigh, before her Grams’ rubber slippers slapped quietly across their floor. Twisting around to peer through the blinds of the sliding door, Bonnie saw her Grams wrap her mom in a big hug. Even though she had to hunch to her Gram’s height, her mom looked so small and thin in her arms.

“Why would this happen?” her mom muttered into her Gram’s shoulder, so soft that Bonnie had to press her ear to the cool glass to hear what she was saying. From the corner of her eye, Bonnie saw Gram’s shaking her head, the curls of her brown hair swaying with the movement.

“Time travel is tricky business, Abby. It shifts things off balance in a way that is never natural. Something is sending our Bonnie to places she’s no business being.”

Bonnie swallowed.

“But who? Who would do that? She’s just a child.” Her mom’s voice was strained.

“We’re Bennetts, honey.” Grams said wryly, “There’s always someone out there we might’ve upset. Give or take a couple centuries.”

Her mother barked out a laugh, humorless and bitter. Bonnie watched as she picked up her glass of wine with a tremulous grip. Sipping slowly, her mother seemed to be thinking long and hard about her next words.

“Can this be undone?” she finally asked Grams, wiping something from her eye.

“That would depend on who cast the spell. Or if it’s even _is_ a spell.” Grams replied in strange voice, her dark eyes darting off to the side of the room.

“Ma, I swear—” Her mom started, slamming her wine down so hard it almost spilled.

“We have to entertain the possibility that something greater could be at work here. Even if we _had_ Emily’s Grimoire, this thing with Bonnie could be beyond spells and curses.”

Bonnie leaned closer, her humid breath fogging the glass. It smelled like apples. Squashed too close against the glass of the window, her nose hurt but she didn’t care. Emily who? A spell?

“…The Spirits?” Her mother whispered, her hand against her chest.

Grams nodded, “Or Nature itself.”

The silence in the kitchen was long as Bonnie waited for them to say something else. Behind her, the crickets grew louder. Annoyed, Bonnie wished they’d chirp softer so she could hear clearer. Distantly, Bonnie heard the flapping of wings and call of a lonely crow.

“The magic that takes her is nothing I’ve felt before, Abby.” Grams confessed to Bonnie’s mom, “Not even the most powerful witch or warlock could manipulate the paths through time like that without violating Nature irreparably. That kind of betrayal leaves a stain.”

Bonnie heard Grams pull out a chair, its wooden legs scratching at the floor before Grams sank into it, like heavy weights were pulling her down.

“I felt no stain on Bonnie. The energies that take her are pure.”

“But _why?_ What could the universe want with my Bonnie?” her mother demanded, her brown eyes aflame.

Grams didn’t answer as she poured herself a drink. From the tray of ice on the table, she dropped two cubes into the amber liquid. The ice clinked against the glass as her Grams stirred the drink with a long, red nail.

“It’s possible…”Grams started, but stopped herself as she crossed her legs, finding her words as her Bonnie’s mom looked to her, expectant, “The universe is always in balance—eternal equilibrium. If one end of the scale is disturbed, Nature rights itself.” Her Grams finally said, the implications clear to the adults.

“You think the universe is taking Bonnie to…” Her mom said slowly, her expression disbelieving, “to ‘right itself’? That makes no sense!”

Grams clucked her tongue, “It does if our Bonnie’s fate is interwoven with the very fate of the Universe. All lives are a part of the tapestry, but some threads are more important than others. If somewhere along the line, someone has pulled on Bonnie’s thread, the universe might unravel time itself to restore balance.”

Bonnie stuck out her bottom lip. She wasn’t a thread. Her mother’s face seemed to agree.

“Ma, sending Bonnie back in time to meet strangers isn’t what I call restoring the balance!” she hissed, her arms flinging out. Bonnie watched as her mom turned around and pressed a palm to her forehead, “I mean, what can Bonnie offer the _universe_? She’s just a little girl.”

Gram’s dark brows slanted down even more so than usual, her plum-colored lips thinning as she watched her mom freak out.

“Little girls grow up, Abby.” Her Grams stated with a hardness to her words, “What use the universe has for her may be beyond our understanding. But for now, I think it’s time we face the possibility that our Bonnie is a witch.”

Bonnie’s mom groaned quietly behind her hands, “I never wanted this for my baby.” She whispered, “ I wanted her to have a chance at a normal life. A _happy_ life.”

Grams tapped her long nails on the dark wood of the table, “No Bennett was ever normal, Abby. The Universe saw to that.”

“Can we stop it? I don’t know, charm her? Protect her?”

“There’s no protecting her from fate, honey.” Her Grams said softly, “Not if she’s a witch.”

Little green eyes narrowed. Bonnie didn’t like the sound of that. Clearly her mom and her Grams were crazy, or something. She couldn’t be a _witch_. Standing abruptly, Bonnie pressed her hands to the door, pushing all her weight against it as it opened for her. Running into the kitchen, past the dark wood chairs of the counter, she stomped her small foot in front of Grams.

“I’m not a witch!” Bonnie protested loudly, not caring that she had been obviously eavesdropping. Her eyes were bright with indignation as she frowned, “I’m a princess!”

Her eyes darted back and forth between Grams and her mom, waiting for any response. They were speechless as they stared at her with wide eyes, before they exchanged strange looks. Now that Bonnie could see them, her mom looked older than she ever had—worry lining her pretty face, and a frown weighed down the kind line of her usual smile. Grams didn’t look much better, the proud line of her posture almost resigned in the thick, tense air of the kitchen. Bonnie didn’t like it.

“…I’m a princess.” Bonnie repeated, softer this time, uncertainty coloring her voice for the first time.

“Of course you are, baby.” Her mom said in a rush, bending low to scoop Bonnie into her arms. As soon as she was able, Bonnie buried her nose into the crook of her mom’s neck, breathing in the last traces of the floral perfume she always wore. With her mother’s comforting presence deep in her lungs, Bonnie settled into the warmth of her mother’s arms. She had always known her mom was the most beautiful woman on the planet, her brown skin so warm to the touch, but she was never more beautiful than when she smelled like white sunshine and delicate apple blossoms.

“You’re a princess fit to rule any kingdom.” Her mom reassured, her voice vibrating against Bonnie’s chest as she ran a hand down her back, feeling over the little bony notches of her spine.

“Then why did Grams call me a witch?” Bonnie asked darkly, pouting as she sent a hurt look over to Grams. The older woman only raised a humored eyebrow at Bonnie’s theatrics.

“Because, honey,” her Grams started, sipping from her glass, “A girl can be an absolute princess… and still be one _hell_ of a witch.”

Bonnie rested her chin on her mom’s shoulder and blinked, “But I don’t want to die at the end of the story.” She mumbled quietly.

Her mom clutched her tighter against her bosom as she spun her around away from Grams, “ _No_ baby, you won’t die, don’t you worry. No one is going to be dying. You get that idea right out of your head.”

Bonnie grinned into her mom’s shoulder, easily comforted in that way children always were, safe in the security of their mothers’ love. Feeling a yawn take her, Bonnie blinked away tears and relaxed, boneless in her mother’s arms.

And she missed the look her mother and Grams shared.

 

* * *

 

The next time Bonnie traveled, she was six years old. Purple boots running over the grey, sun-bleached wood chips of the playground, Bonnie’s heart beat wildly in her chest.

_Where to hide? Where to hide?_

Looking frantically from left to right, Bonnie spotted Caroline’s blonde head disappearing into the middle of the red tube slide. Mouth open, Bonnie tamped down on the immediate rush of envy. How had Caroline found such a great spot so easily? Eyes running over the slide, Bonnie could see why Caroline had chosen that spot for hiding. From the top of the slide looking in, it would be hard to see her—even from the bottom, it would be like Caroline was invisible. Privately, Bonnie made a note to claim that spot as hers the next round, but for now….

Bonnie made a mad dash for the large pile of leaves, off to the perimeter of the playground. Diving into the leaves, a hundred of the brittle things crunched under her weight. Bonnie made short work of scooping as much of the leaves atop her upper body, dragging armfuls of red and brown leaves over her head until she was sealed in darkness. Here and there, little holes between the leaves would let the grey, autumn sky in, but for the most part, Bonnie was giddy in her cleverness.

All she had to do now was control her breathing, stay quiet, and hope that a strong wind didn’t blow her way. Eyes closed, Bonnie strained to hear any sign of Elena’s rapid footsteps. Dry leaves stuck to her hair and poked into her face, but Bonnie resisted the urge to swat them away. She was determined to win this round, before the bell rang.

But then the autumn breeze disappeared, and the scattered laughter of her classmates abruptly silenced, replaced by a muffled kind of quiet that didn’t happen naturally, outdoors. Confused, Bonnie opened her eyes to realize she was naked and huddled in a ball, in a strange room.

Looking around, three round lights shined dimly from the ceiling. Two wall lamps hung mounted above a few beds, on cream colored walls. Dark wood paneled bottom half of the walls, the same kind of wood Bonnie sat on, near the edge of a worn rug. It didn’t look like the fancy house she always travelled to, with Mrs. Lily and the fat baby. This place was different. Standing slowly, Bonnie wondered if maybe she’d travelled to the story of The Three Bears, and if maybe…she was Goldilocks.

But in that story, Goldilocks was alone in the house. As Bonnie’s eyes caught on the back of a hunched figure, sitting on the corner bed, Bonnie realized she wasn’t alone.

“That’s it?”

Bonnie barely managed to stop herself from jumping at the man’s voice—and it was a man, she realized. Terrified, all the excuses she could think of piled so heavily on her tongue, Bonnie could scarcely breathe. Before she could say anything, however, the man said something else.

“That’s your outgoing message? _Really?”_

It was then Bonnie realized that he wasn’t talking to her—he was talking to something like a phone, which he held to his ear. It was an impossibly small phone. Bonnie had never seen a phone that tiny. The phones at home were huge and hung connected to curly, swirly cables.

“I mean, the _one_ time I’m actively seeking the sound of your voice, that’s all I get? Perfect.”

Bonnie thought he sounded upset, but then he stopped and looked down into his lap. Bonnie realized he was holding something—a picture frame.

“Anyway,” the man said, softer than before, gentle even, “I’m in your room. It’s a lot less weird than it sounds…but I just wanted to say that, because of what you did for me… today’s the day that I get to see Elena. So, thank you. And… I’m sorry.”

Bonnie heard him breathe, hard, like he was holding something in that hurt.

“Other than that I don’t know what to say. Or what I’m supposed to say, except that … defying all possible global scenarios, I might miss you a little bit.”

Then she heard him breathe a wet sigh, the same way her mom did when as she cried in her room, after a fight with her dad. Her mom didn’t think Bonnie would hear, but she did.

“Actually…” he laughed, a hoarse sounding thing that seemed flat and fake, _“No_ —you know, I do know what to say.”

The man was suddenly worked up again, any lingering sadness banished in the face of strained anger.

“I want to know, in _what_ kind of scenario going on in that witchy little brain of yours, you thought that I would be alright with this. That I could be alright with seeing Elena again when you aren’t—oh god— ”

He seemed to choke on his own words, and Bonnie wrung her hands. He growled a painful sound, shaking his head furiously as he tore the phone away from his ear and threw it at the pillow on the bed, burying his face in his hands. The phone snapped shut as it bounced.

At first, Bonnie wondered what he was doing, until she heard the first sob coming from across the room. And then another.

The strangled sounds of his quiet crying filled the empty room.

Bonnie breathed in and out. She didn’t know him, but still, she felt bad for him. So she did what she always did when her mother cried. She said something.

“Is Lily not here?”

The man’s head snapped up as he turned to look at her, startled. His eyes were red and his cheeks wet—but Bonnie could see him clearly now. His hair wasn’t just black because it was dark in the room, it was actually black. Like Mrs. Lily’s. He stared at her like he couldn’t believe she was here.

_“Bonnie?”_ he breathed.

She felt strange, hearing her name on his lips. He said her name in such an odd way.

“How do you know my name?” She asked, eyes narrowing. Her mom had warned her of strangers, and not telling them her name.

But the man was already off the bed, slipping out of the leather jacket he wore and making his way towards her. Before she could even blink, he was draping the heavy jacket over her bare shoulders, popping three brass buttons closed over her chest. It was too big and a little rough on her skin, a little uncomfortable, but at least she was covered now. The man’s warmth lingered through the dark leather.

“I’ve known you my entire life.” He said, laughing sadly, as he proceeded to collect her little body into his arms. The rush of air from the jacket brought a whole blend of scents to Bonnie’s nose as the strange man hugged her. The jacket smelled warm, a little spicy, like her Grams when she drank too much from that special bottle, sitting on that high shelf Bonnie was too short to reach. It smelled of rain. And pancakes.

Bonnie was a little scared, but that smell calmed her for some reason.

The man’s arms were strong and big, and Bonnie thought he felt kind of safe. He held her so close, like he really _did_ know her, so Bonnie stood still and let him. He seemed to need the hug.

“My name,” he whispered, holding her against him like she’d leave if he let go, his breathe tickling her ear, “my name is Damon.”

That name sparked recognition in her brain. Pulling back, the man let her withdraw but kept his hands on her shoulders. They were so large they enveloped her arms, above her elbow. He felt oddly cool to the touch.

“Damon? The fat baby?” She asked as her wide, green eyes scanned his face. This close, she could see him better. He was paler than her and very handsome, his lashes long and dark, like the princes in her storybooks, “You’re huge, now.”

A pretty smile spread on Damon’s face, his blue eyes glittering like they were wet. Blinking slowly, Bonnie recognized that particular blue. Could it really be true? Intent, Bonnie leaned closer to study his pale eyes in more detail, when he surprised her by meeting her halfway. She paused when the tip of his tall nose touched hers.

“I grew up.” He said simply, searching her green eyes for something, and then, “Bonnie…”

“Damon.” She replied, parroting him.

Saying his name seemed to break something, and Bonnie stood stunned as Damon rushed to embrace her again. He held on much tighter than before, but Bonnie didn’t mind.

“I’m sorry.” He gasped, and Bonnie felt something wet drop onto the back of her neck, “I’m _so sorry_.”

“It’s…it’s ok.” Bonnie said, a little unsure of what she was doing. But her Grams said those words to her every time she hurt herself, playing outside. Maybe Damon had hurt himself too.

“No. It’s _not_ ok.” He argued, sounding so angry and so very tired, “You’re _gone_. You’re gone and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“But I’m here now.” Bonnie protested. Damon wasn’t making any sense.

Bonnie felt his laugh, that low vibration from his chest to hers, before she heard it.

“Yeah.” He agreed quietly, his voice cracking, “Yeah, you’re here now.”

The strange, sad man held her until she travelled back to that leaf pile in the school playground. He was left with the limp remains of his leather jacket. Just an empty jacket.

 

* * *

 

When Elena dug her out of the mound of dried leaves, her brown eyes widened to the size of saucers.

“B-bonnie? Your clothes!”

Standing behind her shoulder, Caroline screamed.

 

* * *

 

It was four more years before Bonnie travelled again—four more, _long_ years of continuously convincing Caroline and Elena that, yes, that one time they were playing hide and seek at school, Bonnie had simply been overcome with the desire to strip naked.

Though honestly, she’d given up the idea that she’d ever do it again. Sometimes, Bonnie wondered if maybe her little “trips” had been the result of having no friends when she was younger, and a particularly vivid imagination. Sometimes, Bonnie just wondered if she might be insane.

Letting her fingers run over the smooth wrapping paper of her gift to Caroline, Bonnie tried not to frown. Pushing aside a forest of brightly colored balloons, Bonnie pushed past a yellow one to find Caroline hiding behind it.

“Bonnie!” Her friend squealed, as she shook with excitement, “Your mo—dad let you come?”

The brunette winced at her friend’s slip of the tongue. It’d been years, but Caroline and Elena were still getting used to the fact that Bonnie lived with only her father now. Bonnie was still getting used to it, too.

“I wouldn't miss your 10th birthday, Caroline.” Bonnie replied easily, before Caroline launched herself at Bonnie.

“Oh my gosh, this party is going to be so much fun!” She laughed, the silver tiara on her head glinting in the light of the October sun, “Elena’s in the backyard, and guess what?”

“Your mom bought you a pony?”

“No, smartass!” Caroline said, swatting Bonnie’s arm playfully, “Tyler and Matt are here!” she gushed, her pretty features splitting into a bright smile. Bonnie raised an eyebrow.

“But I thought…Elena like Matt, and so do y—”

Caroline cut her off by flapping a hand at her, slinging her arm around Bonnie’s shoulders.

“We both agreed that there would be no boy business for my birthday. Elena promised that today would be all about _me_.”

Bonnie smiled up at Caroline, watching the pale yellow curls of her hair bounce as they made their way to the back yard where Elena was already setting up. With her long tan legs that promised they were not done growing, Elena was already beautiful at ten. Bonnie had always thought her friends always looked like the two barbie dolls types all the girls wanted to take home. The blonde one, and the the one with the brown hair.

“Every day is already all about you, Caroline.” Bonnie teased, leaning in towards her conspiratorially.

She snorted a very un-girlish sound and turned her watchful blue gaze towards Elena, in the distance.

“I wouldn’t say that.” Caroline said glumly, straightening the cheery, pink dress she wore with her pale hands. Over by the table, Bonnie could see that Elena was wearing a dress too—an orchid purple thing with frills around the hem. Bonnie abruptly felt a little out of place, in her jeans and green jacket.

“Caroline, come on. It doesn’t always have to be a competition between you two.” She said, ignoring the feeling in her stomach that said it would never really be a competition where Bonnie would ever qualify.

Her blonde friend stopped walking and turned to her in the middle of the large yard. The expression on her face was oddly serious as the flare of her pink dress settled around her thighs.

“Well if _I_ don’t compete with Elena, who will?”

She said it like it was the most natural thing in the world. That someone _had_ to compete with Elena, or somehow, everyone would succumb to her natural charm, and no one would ever look twice at Caroline...or Bonnie.

The October wind blew through her as Bonnie stood in silence, not knowing what to say to that. From the dark, slanting roof of Caroline’s stately house, a yellow leaf blew down and caught itself in Caroline’s curls. The girls giggled as Bonnie reached over to fish it out, releasing it to the wind once again. And just like that, the odd and heavy tone of their conversation dissipated. The trees overhead, going bald with the tides of autumn creaked and groaned as both girls skipped their way over to Elena who was setting the outdoor table. This October was unseasonably warm, and Caroline’s mom had wanted to take advantage of that.

“Bonnie!” Elena said brightly, her brown eyes dancing with excitement. She left the cups where they were and sprinted her way over. Grabbing both Caroline and Bonnie’s hands, she jumped up and down, her long, chestnut hair falling against her back.

“Oh, this is going to be so great! I heard Caroline’s mom say she had a surprise for when the sun set.”

Caroline made a face, “When is that?”

Bonnie reached out, her nimble fingers picking something from Elena’s dress, “Around five-ish, I think.” She mumbled idly.

It wasn’t until both her friends were staring at her with strange looks that Bonnie realized anything was weird with what she said. Her face heated.

“What?” she asked, rolling her shoulders uncomfortably, “It’s October and I had to do a report on the local weather in earth science class.”

Elena and Caroline seemed to accept that, as they began tittering away about the boys who were at the corner of the yard with the others, their other classmates streaking past them with cans of silly string at the ready. Bonnie didn’t tell them that there had been no such report in science class. Somehow, she’d just known the sun would be down. She felt that knowledge like it was written in her bones.

Bonnie pushed a lock of her short hair behind her ear. Once, Caroline had told her that she would look gorgeous if she just grew it out long, like Elena and she did. Bonnie had been tempted, her hair waved and curled naturally, and some part of her wished to look, at least a little, like she belonged to her group of friends. But when she’d tried growing it out, looking into the mirror was like looking at her mom. She could tell, the way her dad would find an excuse to be out of the house. The way her Grams would look at her, when she thought Bonnie wouldn’t notice.

Bonnie had taken scissors to her hair, after that.

She preferred to look like Grams, anyways.

Someone touched her shoulder, and Bonnie spun around to see Mrs. Forbes smiling down at her.

“Bonnie, when did you get here?”

“Just a few minutes ago.” Bonnie replied, noticing for the first time, just how much Caroline was growing to look like her mom. For some reason, the thought made her throat go tight.

“Thank you for coming.” Mrs. Forbes said kindly, her short blonde hair flipping at the ends, “I know that I’m not around a lot for Caroline.” She admitted, sounding almost regretful, but it disappeared with a twitch off her mouth, “So I’m glad she has friends like you and Elena.”

Looking down, Mrs. Forbes noticed the gift in Bonnie’s hands, her eyebrows jumping up, “Oh, is this for Caroline? I can put it by the others and take it off your hands.”

Bonnie wordlessly handed off the gift with an enthusiastic nod. Mrs. Forbes’ nose wrinkled a little as she smiled almost mischievously, “You’ll want your hands for the water balloon fight. And cake.” She said in hushed tones. And with that, she snuck off, back into the house.

Bonnie watched the woman go with widening eyes, a reluctant smile tugging on her lips.

As the sun began to sink lower, all-out _war_ broke out at the Forbes’ house. Most kids had fashioned pouches with their shirt tails to hold their reserve of water-balloon ammo, holding onto their jiggling cargo as they dashed across the yard. Screams of outrage and sweet victory rang out. It was a day of water filled, latex devastation.

Caroline dashed about, revealing shorts under her damp dress as she used the long, pink fabric to hold her balloons.

“Take _that, Elena!”_ she shouted, swinging a neon green balloon at her best friend. It exploded on the front of Elena’s chest.

The brunette growled in impotent frustration. She had no shorts on under her dress, and had to carefully hold the hem of it to preserve any modesty she had left— _and_ the balloons.

“That’s not fair, Caroline!” she laughed, lobbing a red balloon in the blonde’s direction. Anger made her clumsy, and she missed by a mile. Unrepentant, Caroline stuck a pink tongue out at her. But her gloating was to be short-lived, as a yellow balloon exploded on the side of her face, soaking half of her head.

Elena watched with gleeful eyes and an open mouth as Caroline’s instant karma came in the form of Bonnie Bennett. Outraged, Caroline turned slowly to lock gazes with her other best friend. There, across the bright, latex littered lawn, Bonnie stood triumphant with another balloon at the ready—her green, canvas jacket refashioned into a clever balloon carrying sling across her back. Caroline thought she looked like a warrior Indian with a baby in her papoose. Except instead of a baby in that sling, there were balloons ready to reign wet death on unsuspecting classmates.

“ _Bonnie Bennett!”_ Caroline screeched, unable to stop herself from laughing out loud, her face flushed pink from the running and dodging.

The birthday girl watched as Tyler ran past Bonnie, his eyes intent on her pouch of goodies. Hoping to poach a few balloons from his already depleted supply (he was such a lousy aim), Caroline cheered him on as lunged for her friend.

Bonnie sidestepped him, the damp tendrils of her hair flying in her face as she turned and whipped a balloon at his face for his troubles. It exploded with deadly precision, drawing a shocked cry from him as he tripped on the slippery grass. Bonnie crowed in victory.

“Oh no you don’t.” Caroline muttered as she stomped up to Elena amidst the chaos, a fierce look in her eyes, “Elena, gimmee a balloon. I’m going to lob this in Bonnie’s smug face, even if it’s the last thing I do.”

Elena squawked an indignant sound, shielding her balloons from Caroline, “No, you’re just going to throw it _at me_. Get your own!”

“Oh my god, it’s my _birthday_. Give me a balloon!”

Elena pouted, her bottom lip jutting out as she dug around her stash, giving her the smallest one she could find.

“Here.” Elena conceded with a dubious expression, her face glistening from water and sweat.

“ _Hell_ yes.” Caroline smiled with devious intent, half her hair flat and darkened by the water still dripping from it.

“Eat _this, Bennett!”_ She hollered like a war cry, before sending the pathetic, pink balloon in Bonnie’s direction.

Bonnie’s dark head whipped around to face Caroline. Seeing the incoming water balloon too late, Bonnie raised her arms, already wet with deflecting countless blows.

But Caroline’s retribution never hit its mark, sailing through the empty air where Bonnie once stood. Caroline watched, eyes wide, as the balloon bounced harmlessly on the green trampled grass, a few feet behind where Bonnie had been. Her jaw dropped.

A lump of clothes laid in a pile where Bonnie had been standing, including her makeshift sling full of balloons.

“Oh _crap.”_ Caroline whispered, strands of her blonde hair fluttering in front her mouth with her breaths. Whipping her head to look at Elena, her friend’s round face mirrored the horrified shock that was probably on her own. They seemed to be the only ones who had seen Bonnie simply… _vanish!_

“She did it again, oh my _god_.” Elena hissed.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'll admit it right now. I prefer Bonnie with her Season 6 hair. The other seasons were OK, but her long hair always seemed to be an imitation of someone else. It never quite looked right to me. But don't worry, if you're a stickler for canon, Bonnie's long hair will be making an appearance. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Comments are appreciated, and kudos are always welcome :)


	3. Chasing Nymphs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some visits are longer than others, and Bonnie butts heads with a familiar boy.

 

 

 

Bonnie opened her eyes and found herself standing under the tentacles of a giant jellyfish.

Or at least, she thought she was under a jellyfish. As the drooping tentacles moved with the humid air, Bonnie realized they weren’t tentacles at all, but the drooping blossoms of a wisteria tree. Bright violet and delicate, hundreds of them hung like garlanded strings. At their very tips, the buds of each branch were soft and round like little grapes. The purple-pink blossoms leaned towards her like they longed for her warmth, and Bonnie’s face broke into a large smile as her fingers caught on the rough bark of the enchanting tree.

Bonnie could barely see the sun shining high above her, behind the dense thicket of flowers—but it was there, hot and filtering pink tinted light down to the soft grass between her painted toes. Nearby, Bonnie’s ears picked up the sound of running water. With the soft floral scent in the wind, Bonnie almost didn’t mind that she was missing Caroline’s birthday party, or the fact that she had no idea where she was.

Behind her, Bonnie heard a twig snap.

“I knew _it.”_

Bonnie whirled around, forgetting about her nudity in her surprise.

The words had come from a dark-haired boy in strange clothes, who stood half hidden behind another wisteria tree. A boy aiming a slingshot at her.

Before Bonnie could so much as open her mouth, the boy let the sling loose with a snap. Something small and sharp shot into her arm _hard_ , biting painfully into her skin.

“Ow!” Bonnie shouted, gritting her teeth as she backed away from the smirking boy, holding her injured arm, “You _jerk_ , what the hell is your problem?!”

Her green eyes were ablaze as she threw herself behind the tree’s trunk to dodge any more sudden attacks. Glancing down at the stony river bank, she grabbed the nearest rock and chucked it in the general direction of the psychotic boy. She heard him laugh as it flew passed his head and missed. Bonnie’s blood boiled.

When she rounded on the other side of the tree, more rocks in hand, she stopped at the sight of him—a large net in his pale hands as he advanced on her like she was an elf he would catch.

“I _knew_ you existed.” He said again, almost giddy, “Father is going to _eat_ his words when I bring you to him, naiad.”

_“What?”_

Without warning the boy lunged, throwing the net on her. The surprise, more than crude weights on the net, sent Bonnie to her knees as she shouted in shock. After a brief struggle with the scratchy rope, Bonnie managed to whip it off, throwing it to the ground with a cry of rage.

“Would you _stop_ it?” she barked at him as surprisingly, he did, taken aback at her outburst. Bonnie took advantage of his stunned silence and leaned forward, poking a sharp finger into his bony chest.

“I’m not a naiad, or whatever the hell you think I am, and I haven’t done a _single_ thing to you!” She said irritably, punctuating each word with a harder jab of her finger, “So put down your stupid slingshot and leave me _alone.”_

Up close, the boy was only an inch or two taller than her, his black hair a mess from running up and down the river side like a madman. Though his slightly rounded face was oddly familiar, Bonnie didn’t care to examine that further, angry as she was.

And he had the gall to look confused—even mildly offended.

“Well of course you’re a nymph. You’ve clearly just come from the river, your home.” He argued bluntly, gesturing to her wet hair and damp skin, never mind that she was wet because of a water balloon fight. Bonnie scoffed as he looked at her like she was mad for not believing it, “Why else would you be standing beside the river without a lick of clothing on?”

And then reality came slamming back to her.

Bonnie gasped, suddenly remembering she had no clothes on. Yet embarrassment and numbing fear had rooted her feet to the ground. She was frozen while her face burned up from his roguish smile. While she stood there like an idiot, the boy tilted his head at her naked chest, like a curious cat. It was only at the sound of his chuckling that Bonnie remembered to cover herself, dashing off behind the tree trunk with a swallowed squeak.

“Well, I guess you _aren’t_ a naiad.” The boy pronounced, all confidence as Bonnie buried her face in her hands. Silently, she wondered if someone could die of humiliation. All she could see behind her eyelids were his bright eyes roving down her body as they had, seconds ago. Oh _god,_ she was in so much trouble. Her dad would _kill_ her if he found out she was running around naked in front of strange boys, wielding nets.

“Water nymphs are fully developed women.” He primly declared to her, like he’d read that in a book somewhere. “I see now that you’re just a girl.” He said smugly, thankfully still on his side of the tree trunk. But by the sound of his boots padding across the soft grass, it wasn’t going to stay like that for long.

Bonnie’s chest heaved like breathing oxygen was going out of style.

“But if you _are_ just a girl, what are you doing on my father’s lands?” he asked, his voice slyly curious, “Are you…are you an escaped slave?”

_That_ , of all things, shot anger straight into Bonnie’s veins, burning out any embarrassment still left in her system. Her eyes flew open.

Tearing her face from her hands, Bonnie turned on him and rammed her bony knee into his stomach, sending him to the ground with an aborted shout. Bonnie seethed as she watched him roll onto his side with a groan, holding his stomach like he was dying. He held his dirt smudged hands up in surrender as he squinted up at her, the sun blindingly bright behind her.

“A slave? I am no one’s _slave._ ” Bonnie spat down at him, reckless in her fury. Oh, she’d learned in school just what had happened to those people with skin like hers a hundred years ago, and it made her sick with fear to think that she’d managed to travel to a time where she was no longer safe because of the color of her skin.

“Oh _god.”_ Bonnie swallowed, her head spinning with the new information. A slave? Was that what the net he’d thrown at her was for? To catch her? Her heart raced, beating so loudly in her chest it was a wonder it hadn’t already burst.

Bonnie wrapped her arms around herself, holding onto her calm for dear life, and knew she needed to _get out_ of here. Digging her blunt nails into the skin of her elbows, Bonnie knew she needed to find a place in the woods, _anywhere_ , and hide until all this was over. Until whatever had brought her here took her _back._ Back home.

Taking a tremulous breath, her green eyes zeroed in on the boy on the ground as she backed away from him.

“I’m going.” She said to him, “If you—If you follow me, I swear I’ll jump in the river and take you with me. And only one of us will come back out.” She threatened, feeling like she was going to vomit from terror.

And with that, Bonnie turned started to run.

“ _Wait.”_ she heard the boy gasp, before she felt his fingers wrap around her ankle. With a cry of surprise, Bonnie tripped and fell, splitting her knee on a rock.

Tears stung Bonnie’s eyes as her breaths came hard, red hot pain exploding from her knee. Feeling something warm and wet ooze from the skin there, Bonnie knew she was bleeding.

“Oh, balls of Mary.” The boy groaned as she scrambled up next to her, still on his stomach. Bonnie grit her teeth as she sent him a hateful look through the strands of her tousled hair.

“I am—oh damn, I am…I am _so sorry.”_ He rambled as he pulled himself up beside her, grass stains and flower petals all over his front. With panicked eyes, he looking over the damage he’d caused, “I only meant to stop you and offer you my apologies and my jacket…oh hairy _balls….”_

Bonnie groaned, the stinging pain of her knee intolerable, “Get away from me.” She hissed.

“I swear I didn’t know you’d react so… _violently_ to my poor choice of words.” He insisted, taking off his dirty blue jacket and laying it over Bonnie a bit awkwardly, “I…I really thought you might be a river naiad, like the Greek books talk about. The ones Mr. Callum made me read.”

Bonnie didn’t have the mind to ask who “Mr. Callum” was, and only scowled openly at the boy that had gotten her into this mess, staying stubbornly silent. She wouldn’t be able to run very well with the cut on her knee, but she would if she had to.

The boy lapsed into silence when it became clear that Bonnie wouldn’t talk to him. So he knelt by her side awkwardly, turning his dark head away in something like self-consciousness. Bonnie thought it hilarious that _now_ he seemed to be bothered by his craziness that had gotten them into this mess.

Bonnie jumped when she felt his fingers gingerly nudge her injured knee. He jerked back, staring at her with wide eyes, framed with dark lashes.

“My…my name is Damon.” He offered apologetically, like giving her his name would extend something like trust between them, “Damon Salvatore.”

_Damon?_ The baby Damon? The same Damon that Bonnie remembered seeing as a grown man with tears in his eyes? From the ground, Bonnie looked up at him in disbelief. He looked to be about 11 years old right now. Only a bit older than herself.

Reconciling what she was seeing with what she knew, Bonnie looked down at the rough jacket he’d draped over her with a discerning eye. If she was honest, she preferred the leather one he’d covered her with when she was six. It smelled better. Above them both, her eyes followed the path of a cabbage butterfly as it danced over to the lazy river, landing on a red rock.

When she didn’t offer a name in return, he seemed to consider it a game.

“You know,” Damon started with a crooked grin on his face, “If you don’t give me a name…I’ll just have to make something up.”

Bonnie kept her mouth shut.

“Alright then. Bee it is.” He hummed obnoxiously, looking down to the river bank where the wildflowers grew, watching a bee fumbling around at the heart of a blue blossom.

Bonnie glared at him.

“Then… butterfly?” Damon tried again, a hopeful look on his face. If looks could flay, Bonnie knew his skin would have been history minutes ago.

“Then _what?”_ He whined—actually whined, before his eyes caught sight of a blur of color in the trees. There flew a scarlet tanager, its feathers glossy and red as it bobbed up and down on a branch. Damon watched it open its little beak to sing a trite little song, fluffing its feathers as it looked at him with beady eyes. Damon felt his mouth twitch, his gaze brightening with revelation.

“Little bird.” He whispered as he turned his eyes back down to Bonnie, a wicked smile on his pink lips. “That’s it, I’ll call you little bird, since you’re clearly so _talkative_.” He said with an air of finality, making a face down at Bonnie, “So, little bird, may I—”

“My name’s Bonnie.” She finally offered, stiffly.

“Bonnieeee…?” Damon said, elongating her name as he tried to coax a last name from her. When all he received was the thinning of her lips, he gave up.

“Well, Bonnie.” He finally said, clearing his throat, “May I… look at your knee? It seems to have stopped bleeding. That's something.”

After a pause, Bonnie nodded, and he brought her injured knee forward, careful not to bend it too much. The wound was deep, but not life threatening, which Damon was grateful for. He didn’t know what his mother would say if he managed to kill a girl because he was being his usual self. Flicking a few pieces of grass from the thickening blood, Damon felt her flinch and winced. He reached into his pocket and Bonnie watched as he withdrew a length of thin cloth and began to wrap her knee with practiced hands.

Bonnie had to admit that he at least had the decency to look a little red with guilt. When he looked over to meet her eyes she quirked her brow at him. He responded with a cheery grin.

“I get into trouble sometimes.” Damon explained proudly, “Father says that if I want to be a man, I should learn to patch myself up. Someday, I think I could be a doctor.” He added, a little whimsical.

Bonnie snorted, and Damon looked at her like he thought she might be choking on her own saliva.

“Not if you’re going to attack all your patients with slingshots and nets.” She pointed out, unimpressed. Damon looked almost offended.

“Now Bonnie, I won’t attack my patients like I did with you—which, again, I apologized for. You’ve yet to accept my apology, you know.” He groused.

Bonnie opened her mouth to let him know just _how little_ an apology meant to her when she spotted the shape of a man coming towards them, a little beyond the wisteria grove. Her eyes widened in alarm.

“Master Damon?” the man called as he neared, his voice clearly older and exasperated. “Master Damo—”

He stopped cold when he saw them at the river bank, Damon bandaging Bonnie’s knee with scraps. Bonnie thought he was rather tall and thin, wearing the same strange clothes Damon wore, stuffy and long. His waist coat and pants were brown, buttoned tight over a loose cotton shirt with puffy sleeves that bunched at the wrist. At the tip of his nose, a pair of spectacles teetered dangerously, magnifying wide grey eyes.

“Master Damon, get away from her!” He shouted as he scrambled towards them, alarmed.

Damon sprang to his feet, only barely managing to help Bonnie to hers before the older man cut between them, his hands gripping Bonnie’s shoulders like iron clamps as he crouched to her level. Frightened, Bonnie cried out, the pain in her knee stinging anew.

“Mr. Callum—!” Damon shouted, eyes wide.

“Who are you? What harm are planning Master Damon!?”

“I don’t—” Bonnie started, suddenly so terrified that she stumbled over her words, “My name is Bonnie, _please_ don’t hurt me.”

The man in brown shook her, his voice a harsh bark, “Then answer my questions. What plantation did you escape from, slave?”

“I didn’t escape!” Bonnie insisted, tears springing to her eyes as she struggled to get away from the man, while keeping Damon’s jacket around her middle. His grip was already starting to bruise her arms. At her side, she saw Damon fling his arms around the man’s middle and _pull_.

“Mr. Callum, listen to me! She’s done no harm, she’s just—!”

The man ignored Damon, and swatted him away, his angry eyes boring holes into Bonnie’s face.

“They all say that. How did you get here! _Who_ helped you?” he asked.

“I don’t _know_ how I got here!” Bonnie cried, her throat dry and hurting, “Sometimes I just travel, I just pop in and out of places! I don’t know how it happens, it just does! Please believe me!”

“And why should I?” he bellowed, his bushy brows raised. Bonnie wanted to run, she wanted to disappear, but the man held her too tight. Her dark hair stuck to her forehead, damp with sweat as she struggled.

Suddenly, a name came to Bonnie.

_“Lily Salvatore!”_ She gasped out loud, _“Lily._ I’ve travelled to her a couple times before, and she talked to me. I swear she’ll believe me. She’ll tell you!”

“Mrs. Salvatore?” The man asked, taken aback as he spared a glance at the red-faced Damon, “How do you know the Missus?”

“I _told_ you.” Bonnie whimpered, “I’ve travelled to her before, twice. Once when she having a baby, and the other when he was almost three!” Bonnie said in a rush, pointing to Damon. The boy looked as dumbstruck as the man was.

He blinked behind his strange glasses for a few moments before Bonnie watched his eyes narrow into suspicious slits.

“Tell me why should I believe you?”

“Because I’m _not_ a slave.” Bonnie shouted her frustration, shuffling her feet, “Ask me something. Go on, ask me something no slave would know!” she challenged, her green eyes bright with it.

Bonnie used the man’s pensive silence to catch her breath, her lungs burning from all the shouting. But for the first time since this all began, she _hoped_.

“What is the hypotenuse in trigonometry?” He finally asked her, raising his chin in contention.

Damon grasped his teacher’s sleeve in his hand and pulled, scowling deeply, “Mr. Callum, even _I_ don’t know—”

“It’s the longest side of a right triangle.” Bonnie declared without missing a beat, her eyes burning with determination as she stared the man down, “The hypotenuse is always on the opposite side of the right angle, usually denoted with the letter ‘c’ in Pythagoras’ Theorem.”

Bonnie watched as the man stopped breathing, his eyes widening of their own accord in mute shock. Seeing an opportunity to drive the point home, Bonnie set her jaw and opened her mouth.

“ A2 \+ B2 = C2. That’s Pythagoras’ Theorem, used in trigonometry to determine length of the sides in a right triangle. Is that good enough for you? Now, let me _g_ o.” She demanded.

Never before had Bonnie imagined that something as trivial as geometry might one day save her life, or bring her the confidence now expanding in her chest. But somehow it had. To say that Bonnie had a newfound appreciation for her studies would be the understatement of the century. As she searched the man’s face for a sign that he’d let her go, Bonnie thanked whatever stars that she’d been paying attention in Ms. Connor’s math class… and not passing notes with Elena.

It was a whole minute of breathing the man’s air before she felt his long fingers loosen their grip on her arm. Beside her, she heard Damon sigh in relief. He looked at her with a strange light in his eyes.

“Alright.” The man conceded reluctantly as he stood, his hands pulling down at his waistcoat, “You may not be a slave, girl, but I cannot let you leave until Mrs. Lillian Salvatore verifies your story. Mr. Salvatore has very strict rules about trespassers on the estate.”

Damon’s boots beat against the ground to stand in front of his teacher, “Mr. Callum, there’s no need for that. Bonnie is of no harm to anyone. She’s a…a friend. I _swear it_.” He plead, gesturing to Bonnie.

She watched him, her heart in her throat, as his teacher’s gaze picked the boy apart with a fine tooth comb.

“A friend, Master Damon? Is that why I see you’re holding your stomach like you’ve eaten too many lemon cakes?”

Bonnie winced, and saw Damon flush a bright red, the way she realized he did whenever he was caught.

“Rules are rules, young man.” The man sighed, “And you and I will have words with your father about your habit of running out on our lessons. Is that clear? Or do you have anything else to contribute?”

Damon was silent, turning his face away to stare into the clear water of the river, quietly fuming. For once, Bonnie thought she might sympathize with him. Just a little.

The man—Mr. Callum, as Damon called him—turned to Bonnie and she resisted the urge to step back and run from him. She could’ve. He was no longer holding her to him. But his cool, grey eyes seemed to pin her where she stood.

“Now, Miss Bonnie.” He said levelly, saying her name like he didn’t quite believe it just yet, “Will this be an easy journey? Or will I be forced to throw you _and_ Master Damon over my shoulder and carry you back to the house?”

Bonnie saw Damon jolt in surprise as he looked up at his tutor with a bright red expression, like the very idea scandalized him.

The man in brown blinked at the young boy, “I could do it, you know.” He added dryly.

“No. I’ll go.” Bonnie blurted, “I’ll go easy.” And she wondered if she’d just made a mistake.

With a nod and an outstretched arm, Damon’s tutor herded them back to the house at a leisurely pace, on account of Bonnie’s injury. She walked ahead, doing her best to ignore the man who she could feel staring at the back of her head, like he couldn’t quite figure her out. Damon too would throw strange searching looks at her every once in a while—which Bonnie took to ignoring.

Looking ahead, Bonnie saw a large white house in the distance, sitting on the edge of a thick, green forest. Mouth dry and head throbbing, she swallowed as she pulled Damon’s jacket tighter around herself.

Whatever power had sent her here, Bonnie hoped it would take her away soon.

 

* * *

 

When they stepped into the manor, Mr. Callum reached out and accosted a servant girl passing by, carting a vase bursting with yellow and orange flowers.

“Send for Mrs. Lily.” He said with a grave expression, looking over his shoulder at Bonnie, “And tell her that a _Miss_ _Bonnie_ is here, and we request her presence immediately.”

The tutor’s sense of urgency bled into his voice, and the servant girl nodded fervently, her eyes wide as she glanced down at Bonnie and left down the hall, the flurry of her skirts echoing in the large house with her footsteps.

“Where are we—” Bonnie started, eyeing every billowing drape in the house suspiciously.

“This way.” Mr. Callum interrupted in a hushed voice, eyeing up and down the halls and staircases like he was afraid someone might see them. Leading Bonnie and Damon into a more secluded wing of the house at a hurried pace, Bonnie felt like she was some giant secret that would get out if someone so much as _looked_ at her. Beside her, Damon’s boyish face scrunched up in an expression that said he clearly didn’t understand what the fuss was about either.

“Really, Mr. Callum.” He said in a put off voice that bordered on the edge of insolence, “If this is about me skipping our Portuguese lesson today, there’s no reason to involve mother.”

“This is much more than that, young sir.” Callum stated as he placed his hand on the knobs of two large doors and pulled, “This is in regards to your own safety.”

Bonnie hid her face in the upturned collar of Damon’s jacket, flushing with embarrassment. She knew he was talking about her, and the implication that she was a threat to Damon annoyed her. But any trace of her fighting fire had died down, drained like the adrenaline in her system. Reality was seeping back in, and Bonnie just wanted to sit down.

With a wooden groan, the doors gave way to a large room lined with books—so many books Bonnie’s mind spun to think how many leather bound tomes were collected there. Lifting her chin, she gazed with amazed eyes at the second level of the library, with wooden rails of their own. And at the very top of the domed ceiling, a glass oculus allowed a beam of sunlight to shine into the room, illuminating the epicenter of the library, where desks and upholstery of the red and burgundy variety were arranged. Dark wood dominated the entirety of the library, paneling the walls and comprising most of the shelves and furniture.

Bonnie balked. It was like she was in a living museum. This whole house was extraordinary in its extravagance—its scalloped ceilings, giant windows, and oriental rugs looking like it had been taken directly from one of those ridiculously sumptuous décor magazines her mom had once subscribed to. The same magazines that still arrived in the mail, despite that Sheila Bennett had since moved on with her life… somewhere else.

Bonnie withdrew from her thoughts to find Damon Salvatore staring at her strangely. She narrowed her eyes at him, and he looked promptly looked away.

“Strange as it is, I must ask.” Callum said from his side of the library in his deep voice, “Where are your clothes, girl?”

Turning her face to the tutor who was watching her like a hawk, Bonnie chewed the inside of her cheek.

“I always travel without clothes.” She replied, before she realized how that sounded, “I mean,” She amended quickly, “whenever I appear… _here_ …my clothes are left behind.”

Wherever “here” was.

Mr. Callum’s gaze turned to one of mild distaste as he regarded her like he thought her an uncivilized heathen that regularly wandered around nude. Bonnie chewed her cheek harder.

She was saved from having to say anything more him when the door suddenly opened and Mrs. Lily appeared in the doorway in a spring green dress, apparently having rushed here.

“Bonnie?” Mrs. Lily called, disbelief on her face as her gaze searched the library for her. When Lily’s blue eyes found Bonnie’s, a kind smile crept over her thin lips. “Oh Bonnie, dear.”

And Bonnie found herself smiling too, the comfort of a familiar face soothing her anxiety. Mrs. Lily _remembered_ her.

“Pardon me, but do you know this girl, Mrs. Lily?” Mr. Callum asked, incredulity coloring his tone. Lily moved past him and straight to Bonnie, a garment in her arms as she knelt to Bonnie’s level. Glancing to her wrapped knee with a concerned frown, Lily tilted her head in Mr. Callum’s direction, behind her.

“Yes, of course I know her, Mr. Callum.” Lily declared, huffing a short laugh, “Bonnie Bennett, you’ve grown since I last saw you. It’s been nine years.”

Bonnie’s eyebrows hiked up her forehead, “But I’m only ten years old.”

“Then time must move differently, wherever you come from.” Lily said, her eyes taking in all the little differences in the girl that stood before her, “When did you arrive here, dear?”

“Just half an hour or so, ago.” Bonnie answered, pointing out window that faced the wisteria grove and the distant river, “I popped up over there, under the big tree. Right before Damon _shot me.”_ She couldn’t help adding. Her eyes were narrow when she shot Damon the spiteful look of the maligned.

Damon rushed to his own defense as he came to his mother’s side, “It was an _accident_ , mother, I swear! I thought she was…” He began to say, but cut himself off. Still kneeling, his mother looked over to him and wrapped an arm around his middle, fondly.

“You thought she was…what?” She prodded, deceptively light in that particular way that utterly terrified Damon. It was the kind of a tone she used when a wrong answer could mean a particularly sharp swat on his backside. And abruptly, her arm around his middle was less a comfort and more a vice that kept him from avoiding her.

“I thought…I thought she was a nymph, or a wood elf. So I tried to catch her.” He confessed, grimacing up at his mother.

“And is that how Bonnie’s knee was hurt?” Lily asked, her eyes half-lidded and her tone growing slightly harder. Damon’s eyes widened as he tried to smile.

“…Maybe?”

Bonnie scoffed the same moment that Lily swatted her son upside the head, leaving Damon to hold his stinging scalp with a long hiss, shooting Bonnie a dirty look through his long lashes. It was a look that Bonnie would have stuck her tongue out at, had Lily not been in the room. Something about Lily Salvatore made you want to bend over backwards, just to live up to her expectations.

Bonnie thought she heard Damon mutter curses under his breath, as behind him, Mr. Callum looked on with a supremely entertained expression.

“ _Damon_ Salvatore.” Lily chastised sternly, her serene features arranged in an expression of extreme disappointment, “I taught you better than _this.”_

“I _apologized_ to her _.”_ Damon insisted, looking pleadingly at his mother.

“And you will _again.”_ Lily promised her son, “Again, and again, and again until Miss Bonnie decides not to break your bonehead on her knee. And after this whole mess is over, you will all spend your free time devoted to making Miss Bonnie comfortable here. Every day until she returns home. Is that understood, Damon? “

Bonnie stared at mother and son, not daring to even blink and risk miss the exchange. She hadn’t known Mrs. Lily was such a fierce woman. It reminded her a little of her Grams, back home.

“Yes, mother.” Damon conceded as he sighed, looking away and down at his boots, where he scuffed the toe against the rug and muttered, “Ugh, when did you become such good friends…”

There was a moment when he realized he hadn’t said that as quietly as he thought, and he jerked his face up to look at Lily, expecting another swat—but his mother was surprisingly calm as she quirked a brow down at him.

“When Bonnie appeared for your birth, son.”

Damon’s face scrunched up like he’d inhaled something that he couldn’t quite stomach, “Wait, that was _true?_ Bonnie was actually there when I was born?”

Lily shared a knowing look with Bonnie, her eyes twinkling, before she nodded to her son.

“Of course.”

“How does that make any sense?” Damon demanded of his mother, like she would have all the answers.

“It doesn’t.” Lily agreed evenly, “But it seems that Bonnie is drawn to you, Damon. Already this is the third time she’s visited you.”

“Fourth.”

All eyes turned to look at Bonnie, who looked so strange wearing a jacket that was not tailored for her, and nothing else. Lily gazed deeply into those green eyes she had wondered over, for so many years,

“Fourth?”

“I…I travelled to Damon before this visit, once, but he was grown up. He was different.” Bonnie revealed, hesitant. She left out the part where he had been angry and crying.

Lily looked at her with a fond smile, like she was a surprise that just kept on giving.

“Curiouser and curiouser.” Lily said softly in wonder.

Damon finally walked past his mother, his steps measured as he spoke to Bonnie directly.

“Why?” He asked, a little line appearing between his dark brows, “Why me?”

Bonnie could only shake her head, the ends of her dark hair tickling her jaw, “I don’t know. I wish I did.”

That seemed to leave the rest of them silent for a while, the only audible sounds coming from the open window. In the distance, they heard the distinct rolling of a horse drawn carriage, coming up the road of the Salvatore Estate. Lily’s head turned abruptly to look out the window, before she glided past Damon with hurried steps.

“Your father is home.” She said darkly. In the peace of the library, Bonnie thought it sounded almost ominous, “Gentlemen, if you would turn your backs, I think Bonnie has been in that filthy jacket long enough.”

Bonnie watched as Mr. Callum and Damon seemed to stammer out a chorus of embarrassed sounds and clearing of throats as they faced the other way, hands clasped behind the too-straight line of their backs. Bonnie almost laughed.

She tried her best not to bend her scabbed knee as Mrs. Lily helped her into a simple, olive green dress that fell mid-calf in length. The garb felt worn and lived in, and as Mrs. Lily tied a thin pinafore over the dress, Bonnie felt fully covered for the first time since she’d arrived. Sighing in relief, the sound came out embarrassingly loud. Yet, Lily gave her a nod that said she understood.

“Thank you, Mrs. Lily.” She said, earnest in her appreciation for her new clothes. Bonnie had never worn such a strange dress before, but it wasn’t frilly or poofy like the ones Caroline and Elena loved to wear so often. It made her feel strangely comfortable.

“You are very welcome, Bonnie Bennett. Always.” Lily answered.

And when the woman stood and finally allowed the men to turn around, Damon looked at her new dress with a critical eye. When he approached, Bonnie held out the jacket he’d let her wear and Damon took it wordlessly.

“Mother,” he asked with curious look in his eye, “Where did you even manage to find a dress for her that would fit?”

At that, Lily laughed, the lovely sound of it bringing an unconscious smile to Damon’s lips. Only then did Bonnie realize just how much Damon truly adored his mother.

“Oh Damon, you know I’ve been wanting a daughter of my own for a long while now. In fact, when I was pregnant with your little brother, I thought he might finally be it.” Lily smiled down at Bonnie with newfound affection, tinged with nostalgia, “That dress was mine, when I was her age.”

“Stefan? A girl? Heavens above..."” Damon breathed, clearly trying to imagine his drooling, toddling brother as a drooling, toddling sister—and failing.

"Behave now, Damon dear, or I'll stick a bonnet on you while you sleep. Just like I do to Stefan."

Damon paled. His mother smirked.

“Wait, Mrs. Lily, you’ve had another baby?” Bonnie piped up, surprised. Lily had another son? Why hadn’t she travelled to him like she had Damon?

“Oh yes, Bonnie. His name is Stefan—he’s three, now. ” Mrs. Lily replied with a short nod, “If I’m to be honest, I had been expecting you to pop out from behind the drapes, like you had.”

Mrs. Lily raised a shoulder playfully as she looked at Bonnie, “Perhaps after I’ve dealt with my husband, you will meet my Stefan.”

A smile tugged at the corner of Bonnie’s mouth. She wanted that, very much.

Turning to Damon, his mother reached down to sink her white fingers in the thick black of his hair, “When I leave, keep Bonnie away from your father and tell no one of how she came to be here.” Lily instructed gently, “It could be dangerous for her if anyone found out. Do you understand?”

“Yes, mother.”

“Good boy.” Lily praised as she bent down to press her lips to the crown of his dark head.

Heading to the door, her slim hand already on the handle, Lily turned at last to Mr. Callum. Any trace of affection was replaced by a grave sort of solemnity.

“Mr. Callum, I ask that you aid them in any way that you can, and keep the same confidence I ask of Damon. Can I rely on you?”

The man look intensely troubled, shaking his head, “Mrs. Lily, I don’t understand. How came the girl to be here? People will ask questions, and if she really _did_ come to be here via some sort of magic, it could be witchcr—”

“If you value your job and your conscience, Mr. Callum, you will not repeat what I know you were just about to say outside of this room, is that clear?” Lily interrupted with a steely voice that would unman even the bravest male, “She is _just_ a little girl. Just because we cannot yet understand the powers that sent Bonnie here, does not mean that _she_ should suffer for it.”

Lily pulled open the door and stepped one heeled boot through before she surreptitiously glanced back at Mr. Callum, her blue eyes like ice. When she spoke, her voice was low and quiet enough that her words would not leave their confidence.

“And if it were witchcraft, Mr. Callum, what then? Is that the kind of power you think wise to upset?”

He had no response for her, for what could he say? Swallowing, Mr. Callum bowed his greying head and stepped back, acknowledging her warning for what it was—a reminder that hasty accusations were unwise to throw about, especially here in Mystic Falls. Misfortune of the unusual kind always followed.

Taking his subdued silence as its own answer, Lily glanced back at her son, Damon, and to Bonnie—the fey little girl who was somehow tied to her him.

Biting her tongue, Lily stepped through the door and went out to greet her husband, burying any worries behind a half-smile that she wore only for Giuseppe.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't kill me. I know that "Alice In Wonderland" and the accompanying "curiouser and curiouser" phrase wasn't published until 1865, and since this chapter exists in 1850, the dates are a little screwy. But hey, what's 15 years in the world of the Vampire Diaries?
> 
> I thought, given the little Heretic twist in the latest episode of TVD concerning Lily and her ambiguous history with the supernatural, I might make her a little more mysterious. Make her a little sympathetic perhaps, towards those powers, that could've set up what we might see in larger canon. I know Lily is receiving a lot of hate for how she doesn't love Stefan and Damon anymore, but I think she _does_ regret losing that love. So I wanted to show what might've been between mother and sons, once upon a time.


	4. Monster Under the Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damon puzzles about the mystery of Bonnie and despite himself, falls into her orbit.

 

 

 

She was the most bizarre creature he’d ever had the misfortune of encountering.

Damon shaded his eyes from the high sun with his hand, trailing his gaze over this ‘Bonnie Bennett’. She looked both so alike, and unlike any slave he’d ever seen. Of course, she would be keen to point out to him that that was because she _wasn’t_ a slave, but for Damon, Mystic Falls was not home to many free men and women of her descent. He had never seen more of the world, beyond the horizons of his town.

Damon watched her flit from one market stall to the next, her animated face alive with her curiosity. Strands of her oddly shorn hair caught on her lips every time she spun around on her heels to look at the next bauble a seller held up for her. Her skin, brown and warm, like the depleted soil of the fields the local plantations would leave to regenerate every other season, marked her as lower class—even lower than the lowest class. But that was not the way she held herself. Damon’s eyes watched her skip about, her back straight and her shoulders back—her every step confident and strong. She carried herself like she was just like Damon, like she was normal, deserving of all the respect society had to offer. It was at odds with everything Damon had come to know about people.

Watching all of the scattered slaves and servants bustling about the open market at their owners’ behest, buying fresh food for their masters’ table with their masters’ money, their heads low and their gazes lower—Damon could see what made Bonnie so different. So bright.

And it was attracting far too much attention.

The boy stepped forward, his fine Italian boots skidding through the dirt of the marketplace as he wove in between the countless bodies to get to Bonnie.

“Miss Bennett.” He hissed quietly as he slotted himself into the space beside her, “If I’d known you so desperately wanted to draw public attention to your unique situation, I would have strapped the target apple to your head _myself.”_

A sprig of dry sage in her hand, Bonnie handed the herb bundle back to the stall woman with a regretful thank you. Damon had caught the tail end what they had been talking about, and apparently the stall woman was just educating her on the many benefits of burning the herb…before he had interrupted.

When the girl turned her face to him, Damon was only a little surprised that he could read the irritation on her face. He was still getting used to the way she wore her emotions so openly.

“Oh, so it’s ‘Miss Bennett’ now?” She sniffed haughtily, clearly still upset with him, “Not ‘naiad’ or ‘slave’ or ‘vile girl’?”

Damon frowned. He hadn’t meant to call her that last one. It just slipped out when she’d beat him at cards. And then, pride sufficiently bruised, Damon had abruptly grown tired of the games they were limited to, stuck in the house for Bonnie’s apparent “safety”. But coming out into town had created a whole new set of issues—all orbiting around Bonnie.

Damon sighed irritably, “I apologized, you know. When are you going to let it go?”

She threw him a look that did not promise easy forgiveness, and turned her back as she walked further down the road without him. Damon had to jog to catch up with her.

“Really,” Damon groused as he matched her pace, “people wouldn’t call you ‘vile girl’ if you had better manners.”

“Oh _I_ have bad manners?” She snorted, in a very un-ladylike way, “Says the boy who attacked me with rocks, tried to trap me with a net, and then tripped me.”

Damon reflexively opened his mouth to defend himself, but closed it again after a pause. Staring at the side of her face, Damon couldn’t decide if her complete lack of demure grace and disregard for anything but blunt honesty disturbed him…or _delighted_ him. Bonnie cursed when she was furious, and she had no qualms whatsoever about launching herself into a fight, if she were so inclined. Had Damon not seen the…um, _evidence_ to the contrary with his own eyes… he would have thought her the son of a sailor.

“Look, I’m sorry, Miss Bennett—”

“It’s Bonnie. ‘Miss Bennett’ is so…weird.” She muttered, staring at him like he was the one acting strangely. Damon was incredulous.

“Well I can’t come out and call you by your given name _in public,_ now can I?” He protested, frustrated at having to explain these obviously elementary things to her. By the _heavens,_ even his drooling brother had a better grasp of commonplace etiquette than Bonnie.

“Why not?” she asked, looking genuinely puzzled.

“Because…” He began to say, but blanked on an appropriately definitive answer that would show her all the sensibility she lacked. Throwing his hands into the air, Damon’s voice came out frustrated, “Well, because it simply isn’t _done_ , Miss Bennett.”

It was a hollow answer, even to his own ears

“Uh huh.” She said with wide, mocking eyes. Damon’s brows slanted quizzically. What did that even mean?

“Look, using your name outside of the house means to others that I presume to know you in a personal way. I clearly _don’t.”_

The pair of them passed by the confection stands, where brightly colored candies were displayed in all their delicious glory. Freshly made butterscotch squares and taffy were laid out on a sheet, while piles of dyed sugar plums, yellow lemon drops, and horehound lozenges filled tall glass jars, amongst other things. As Damon breathed in and watched Bonnie do the same, the smell of sweet molasses was thick in the air.

“What’s there to know?” Bonnie asked him nonchalantly, “My name is Bonnie Bennett, I’m 10 years old, I’m in the 4th grade, my favorite color is green, and my best friends are Elena and Caroline. See? Now you know me.”

Damon watched her eyes wander with an intense sort of focus, like everything she was seeing and smelling was something new to her. Damon watched her shrug, her shoulders bobbing up and down under his mother’s green dress.

“It’s not that simple.” He said, looking down at the road.

But a part of him wondered if maybe, it _could_ be that simple? That maybe, knowing somebody wasn’t so complicated as the adults made it out to be. From his view of the dirt beneath his feet, Damon turned his head to look at Bonnie from the corner of his eye.

Bonnie just met his gaze with her own. She didn’t say anything, didn’t shrug, or give him one of those sharp looks that always made him want to challenge her to a duel.

Damon looked away, his throat tight as they walked in silence back to the manor.

His name was Damon Salvatore. He was 11 years old. He didn’t know what a ‘4th grade’ was, but if you asked him, he’d say that he was a first grade gentleman. His favorite color was…was red, and Damon had friends. They were boys from the other families that he would play with on occasion—but a best friend? Bonnie’s use of the word was odd, but Damon could guess what she had meant.

A best friend was a companion that stood apart from all the others, that _one_ person who was kindred in all the ways others weren’t.

Damon wondered…if Bonnie was his best friend, would he be allowed to call her by name, then?

 

* * *

 

Mr. Callum had allowed Bonnie to stay in the library for Damon’s lessons, for which Damon was very grateful. At least he wouldn’t have to sit and suffer alone. They sat amongst the bookshelves at a table where Mr. Callum was dictating sentences for Damon to write. Against a wall, a large pendulum clock ticked away the seconds and the minutes with mind-numbing accuracy—except instead of helping Damon keep rhythm like the little metronome on his piano did, the library clock was just the sound of his life, slipping away into the abyss of boredom.

Damon snuck a quick glance out the window where the sun was still hanging shamefully high in the pale blue of the sky, with nary a cloud in sight. Damon bit back a groan. Not only was the day _wasting_ away while Mr. Callum droned on and on, but Damon would have much rather been outside with Mr. Thorne, practicing his fencing—or better yet, beginning his boxing lessons.

“… _’No, Ambrosio’_ ,” said Mr. Callum as he dictated solemnly to Damon, his head tilted down as he read from the book in his hands.

“ _‘Learn to know me better. I love you for your virtues: Lose them, and with them you lose my affections. I look upon you as a Saint; Prove to me that you are no more than Man, and I quit you with disgust’_.”

Damon tore his eyes away from the window and wrote at a furious pace, the steel nib of his fountain pen scratching away at the paper. As he wrote, black ink blooming across the page in delicate script, Damon thought upon the words Mr. Callum read, and wondered about them. The pink tip of Damon’s tongue poked out from between his lips as he concentrated on forming each word accurately with perfect spelling and punctuation.

Damon blinked as Mr. Callum read on. He knew this passage of the book. The woman, Matilda, disguised as a monastic noviciate, had infiltrated the monastery as a man named Rosario—all to be near and befriend the young abbot Ambrosio, whom she secretly loved from afar. Here in this passage, she revealed to him her womanhood, and beseeched him not to reject her, for she promised she was not a threat to his vows of chastity. Matilda’s love for him was tied to his virtue—if he fell to Sin, she vowed her love for him would cease to exist.

“ ‘ _Think nobler of me, think nobler of yourself.’ ”_ Mr. Callum read on, “ _‘I am incapable of seducing you to error; and surely your Virtue is established on a basis too firm to be shaken by unwarranted desires. Ambrosio, dearest Ambrosio! drive me not from your presence; Remember your promise, and authorize my stay!'_ “

As Damon wrote away onto the paper beneath his hands, dipping his nib into the glass inkwell, his young mind wondered why the pure love of Matilda was fated to twist Ambrosio into a monster, breaker of vows, murderer and violator of women. Should love not save, rather than corrupt?

“Mr. Callum.” Damon blurted, looking up from his paper at his wizened tutor.

The older man stopped mid- sentence and blinked down at the young boy, who let his pen slip into the inkwell, resting its wooden length against the glass rim with a clinking sound.

“Yes?”

“Why does Ambrosio turn from God, all for a woman he ultimately rejects for another in the end? Why didn’t her love save him from hellfire?”

Mr. Callum squinted his grey eyes as he sighed in thoughtful silence. Taking off his spectacles, he hummed contemplatively.

“Well, Master Damon, you’ll remember that before Ambrosio even knew Matilda was a woman, he already looked with lustful eyes upon the visage of the Virgin Mary in his room. Evil had already made its home in Ambrosio before Matilda had even revealed herself to him. He was destined for hellfire from the beginning.”

Damon’s mouth twisted downwards in dismay, and his tutored suppressed a smile.

“Damon,” Mr. Callum hummed fondly, “A love of a woman can do a great many things. It can inspire wars, build beautiful cities, and breathe life into the lifeless—but it cannot save you from yourself. Only _you_ can accomplish that.”

Damon was silent at that, considering this new information. His mother had told him love was everything and would be his saving grace when he found it. Was she wrong? Interrupting his thoughts, Mr. Callum raised the book and flapped his hand at Damon.

“Besides that, Damon,” the man added casually, finding his place once more upon the faded page, “Matilda is revealed to be a sorceress of Satan. And as we know, nothing good ever comes from the love of a _witch.”_

Damon nodded his dark head in half-conscious agreement as his hand reached for his pen once more, when the distant sound of giggling caught his attention. He twisted in his seat, the restricting silk of his waistcoat cutting into his torso. But that was hardly on his mind as his pale eyes searched the aisles of the library for the source of that laugh. Yet he saw no one. Damon had almost believed that his mind was playing tricks on him when he heard the giggle again, like the bright tinkling of silver bells. Turning his eyes upon Mr. Callum, his tutor seemed to be perplexed as to why someone would be laughing in the library.

Without warning, Damon slid from his seat and padded across the Persian rug of the library foyer, his eyes watchful as he passed bookshelf after bookshelf, looking for _her_ particular shape. Leather bound books of reds, blues, greens and browns passed by his vision like a blur as he searched for Bonnie—to no avail—until he heard her soft laughter again and looked up. She was above him.

Damon stopped and lifted his face. They were in that part of the library without windows and the area was only kept illuminated by a chandelier of candles. And there, sitting on the second level of the library, sat Bonnie Bennett, a book in her lap with her skinny legs threaded through the wooden railings, kicking idly as she read.

“You know,” Damon called up to her, unable to stop a smile from playing across his lips, “You’re being awfully loud for someone in a library.”

That smile grew when she jumped at the sound of his voice, and slapped a small hand over her mouth, her eyes wide.

“Oh, sorry.” She breathed down to him in a whisper, “I didn’t think you could hear me.” She confessed with a guilty look on her face.

Damon’s grin warmed. Bonnie was such a peculiar girl. In typical, socially graceless fashion, he had expected her to make a face at him and perhaps throw a book down at him, not take his teasing seriously. Yet here she was, embarrassed and apologizing.

Resting his hands on his hips, Damon tilted his head up at Bonnie, considering her from a new angle. Just when he thought he knew how she’d react to him, Bonnie went and did something else entirely. She was most irregular.

“I joke.” He admitted in the dim light, unsure of what compelled him to be honest with her, “I kid, this library is the Salvatore private collection. Guffaw to your heart’s content.”

Bonnie gave him an odd look through the wood railings. The silence that followed was also odd. Abruptly, he realized it was because she was trying to read, while he was just standing below her, staring.

“Um, er…what are you reading?”

Bonnie’s odd look was replaced by a grin.

“A strange book about the Earth and outer space.” Bonnie replied, like she was privy to a great secret. It lit up her features with a mischievous glint.

“And what is so amusing about that?” Damon asked. Bonnie’s laughter was immediate, the bright white of her little teeth all the more apparent in the dim light.

“Because it says the solar system has only seven planets.”

Damon squinted in that way he always did when something mystified him, “Yes? The humor you find in facts escapes me.”

Bonnie’s eyes widened as she jut out her chin, like she was willing him understand what she was getting at, before his silence was too much. She groaned audibly and wrapped her hands around the rails before her.

“Name the planets, Damon.”

Damon rolled his eyes at her, “Well, excuse me ‘ _Mr. Callum’.”_

“Just name them, Damon!”

“Mercury,” he blurted in irritation, “Venus. Earth. Mars. Jupiter. Saturn. Uranus.”

Bonnie seemed to be waiting for Damon to name more planets, but when he didn’t, she spoke.

“And Neptune and Pluto, Damon.”

 _“What?”_ Damon snapped, looking at the girl like she’d grown three heads, “There are no such planets in the solar system.”

“There _are_.” Bonnie argued, “The world just hasn’t discovered them yet.”

Damon opened his mouth to tell her she was absolutely mad when he heard Mr. Callum finally catch up with him, his footsteps heavy with his disapproval. Damon turned and flashed him his smarmiest grin. Mr. Callum groaned on instinct.

“Dear Mr. Callum, how considerate of you to join us.”

“Damon, running off from dictation isn’t going to—”

The boy flapped an irreverent hand at his tutor, “Yes, well I was just talking to Bonnie here, who has gone absolutely mad. She says that there are more planets to be found in outer space.”

Damon deftly balanced his weight on the heels of his boot. Reaching out, he randomly chose a book and tipped it from the shelf, tapping it idly on the flat of his palm before pointing its spine in Bonnie’s direction.

“Tell her she’s mad.” He insisted to his tutor, his eyes wide with exaggerated pep.

The man lifted his head with a long suffering expression, but as his gaze caught on the book in Bonnie’s lap, the expression abruptly changed to one of interest. Even surprise.

“Miss Bennett, you read?”

Damon watched Bonnie look down at his tutor like he’d just asked if the sky was blue. The boy sighed, taking it upon himself to save his teacher from his bouts of social ineptitude. With the airs of an accident, Damon dropped his book onto Mr. Callum’s foot. The older man hissed and hopped awkwardly.

“I mean,” Mr. Callum said hurriedly, “Of course you read. Of course you’ve been educated.”

Damon cut in, “That’s not the point, Mr. Callum. Bonnie here says that there are more planets in our solar system!”

“There are!” Bonnie repeated with fervor, “Neptune and Pluto make up the outermost fringes of our solar—”

“Wait, did you say ‘Neptune’?”

Surprised, Bonnie turned her head and looked down at his tutor. Hesitantly, she nodded.

“The discovery of Neptune was only four years ago. It hasn’t had the chance to make it into any books, yet.” Mr. Callum said, amazed. Damon could see the wheels and cogs turning in his head, behind his dazed eyes, “How do you _know_ about Neptune, Miss Bennett?”

Bonnie’s expression was triumphant as a close-mouthed smile crept across her face, her green eyes pointedly on Damon. That grin was entirely too smug for his taste. Damon made a face up at her.

“Miss Bennett?” The older man pressed, trying to keep the children on track. Bonnie simply shrugged.

“I don’t know.” She confessed, “Where I’m from, Neptune has been in our books since forever. So has Pluto.”

“Another planet?” Mr. Callum breathed with tangible excitement, any remaining skepticism evaporating, “You really _do_ come from another place.”

Damon’s foot itched to stomp. His tutor, for all his faults, was a man of academia to the core. Damon should have remembered that before he had any grand notions of Mr. Callum rushing to support Damon in this…strange contest between Bonnie and himself.

“This doesn’t mean you’re right.” Damon muttered up to Bonnie, petulant.

“Yes it does.” Bonnie responded, looking down her nose at him.

“Wait, Ms. Bennett.” Mr. Callum finally said, no doubt prioritizing his many questions, “What time do you come from? What year is it that you originate?”

Bonnie seemed to think about it for a moment, “Well it’s 200—”

Suddenly, Bonnie stopped speaking and her hands flew up to her grasp at her head, yelling out painfully. Damon jumped at the sound, his blue eyes intent on Bonnie’s sudden change.

“Bonnie?”

She cried out again, and this time through her whimpers, Damon could see drops of blood running from her nose. At the sight of red, a cold weight dropped in his stomach. Dashing to the wall and scrambling up the ladder, never once taking his eyes from Bonnie, Damon rushed to her side where she was leaning against the railing. He stumbled once in his haste, but quickly righted himself.

“Bonnie!” he called, grasping her shoulders with a tremulous grip as he shook her gently, his eyes searching her frantically for an obvious injury—yet there was none he could see.

Hunched over, Damon tilted her so that he could her in the light. Her eyes were shut tightly, her fingers tangled among the strands of her black hair. As she clenched her teeth, blood trickled lightly from her nose.

“It…it _hurts._ ” Bonnie gasped, like her entire body was wracked with pain. Damon held up his handkerchief to her nose as he heard Mr. Callum hastily follow him up the ladder. Damon’s heart pounded in his ears.

“It’s…it’s alright.” Damon stammered to Bonnie, feeling helpless in the situation and _hating_ it.

Fortunate for all, Bonnie’s pain seemed to subside after a few more moments as Mr. Callum knelt and pulled the book from her lap, the open page now stained with droplets of her blood.

“Ms. Bennett, are you alright?” He asked, “Should I call for a doctor?”

“No, no I’m fine.” Bonnie insisted, lifting her head with tired eyes. Her strange nosebleed had stopped and Damon gave her nose a final wipe before he drew the cloth away, folding the bloodstained handkerchief and pocketing it. A small smudge of red remained on Bonnie’s skin.

“What…what happened to you?” he asked, teetering on the balls of his feet, “You bled.”

“I don’t know, it just _came_. It hurt my head.” She groaned miserably. Her face, usually warm with a rosy glow, was pale.

“How did it happen?” Damon asked, looking to the only adult in the room. Mr. Callum’s face was drawn in concern, looking carefully at Bonnie.

“Well, when Miss Bennett began speaking about the year she travelled from…” He trailed off, his voice grim and uncertain.

“I…I was saying how I came from 20—”

Abruptly, Bonnie jolted in pain again. Mr. Callum leapt forward and held her, holding her head so it wouldn’t thrash about.

“No Miss, you mustn’t speak of it anymore!” he said in a stern voice, “It’s clear now that whatever power has sent you here means you not to change this time line more than you already have.”

Damon’s face twisted into indignation, angry that Bonnie was suffering for something she clearly had no power over.

“But it’s just a number!”

The tutor shook his greying head, “Bonnie comes from sometime in the second millennium, Damon. Already, she knows of things that have not yet even come to pass for you and me.”

“She told us of planets and Pluto, though. Shouldn’t that count as changing history?”

Soothing Bonnie as she wiped a drop of blood from her nose, Mr. Callum looked just as confused as Damon did, and measure more worried.

“It must be different, Damon. I have no answers.”

It was all the tutor could offer and Damon bit back a sigh, raising his face to study the ceiling detail so that he wouldn’t have to look at Bonnie. Bonnie and her wet eyes, her confused gaze.

As his heart began to beat normally again, and the fright in his veins dissipated with the passing seconds, Damon blinked rapidly.

He didn’t understand why this would _happen._ He didn’t understand why something would take Bonnie from her second millennium home, just to plop her here with _him_ —an ordinary, southern boy. He didn’t know why that power had chosen him, of all people, and it gave Damon that wretched…feeling that this was all _his_ fault. That Bonnie was scared and hurting because of him.

Like his mother had said, Bonnie wouldn’t have to be here if she wasn’t somehow tied to Damon.

“Damon?” he heard Bonnie say. Whatever panicked guilt he was feeling was probably showing on his face, and he met her green eyes after some moments of hesitation.

“Are you alright? Can you stand?” he asked, perfectly polite because his mind was elsewhere.

“Yeah I think so.” She answered, but looked at him like she knew he was off-balance. He was never polite, not if he could help it. And Bonnie looked at him like she saw him for the boy he was, shaken by a fear he did not yet understand.

“Are you alright?” Bonnie asked as she stood, leaning her weight upon the rails of the library.

“I…I’m…” Damon swallowed, at a loss for words. Even with blood smeared under her small nose, she still asked about him.

In his throat stuck a half-formed apology. Damon wasn’t quite sure what it was for, but in his gut he felt he owed it to her. Yet the words never came, and his voice failed him. The apology just stuck there, like a heavy peach pit he had accidentally swallowed.

The library clock struck the hour and the chimes rang out, echoing in the heavy silence of the library.

No. No, Damon wasn’t alright, and neither was Bonnie. It was all because of the stupid powers that had sent her to him. Damon wanted to tell her just how afraid he had been when she had bled—just how _not_ alright he had felt seeing her in pain from an ailment that he could not pinpoint. But he couldn’t tell Bonnie all that, not…not when she was standing _so_ straight without Mr. Callum’s proffered arm, doing her best to show them that she was fine. Her face was pale, yet the frail smile upon her lips was real. She offered it freely to the strangers she had just met, hours ago, mindful of their comfort above her own.

And Damon was struck by the quiet strength of Bonnie—by the kindness of not wanting to be a burden, even if she had every excuse to be. And if Bonnie could shoulder her own hurts, then it couldn’t be a hardship for Damon shoulder his own, now could it?

So that half formed apology stayed in his throat. All those anxious words that roiled his emotions sunk back into his lungs, and seeped back into his blood and his bones. And the weight of them stayed there even as Mr. Callum cursed the clock and shuffled them both off for dinner.

 

* * *

 

Bonnie had not been allowed to eat with them, on account of his father’s presence there.

Damon had grumbled silently the entire dinner, devouring his food with even less regard for dinner etiquette than usual. The beef and clam soup were richly spiced, and the cornbread made up for the slight rawness of the potatoes, yet Damon wasn’t thinking of any of that as he ate spoonful after spoonful. His thoughts were of Bonnie.

Bonnie, who was no doubt sitting alone in the bustling kitchen amidst strangers. Eating strange food in a strange time.

Under normal circumstances, Damon would have loved watching his mother and father pry stilted words of small talk from each other. He would have loved picking out pieces of peas and potatoes from his own hair, launched from Stefan’s little high chair at the corner near his mother. Normally, Damon would have enjoyed catapulting a few scraps of his own at his evil gurgling brother, preferably when his father’s attention was elsewhere.

But today was not normal, and circumstances were far from ideal. Damon ate his food, distracted and full of nervous energy as he counted the minutes until his parents would dismiss him and Stefan to bed. That would mean he was free to sneak off and check on Bonnie.

Since his father would have never stood for any nervous tapping on the fine table cloth, Damon tapped away on his knee. He answered when he was spoken to, in an unusually perfunctory manner—yet if Damon’s father noticed anything bizarre about him, he did not comment on it. His mother, ever the perceptive woman that she was, had most definitely noticed something off with Damon. But thankfully, she was too busy wrangling Stefan into eating his food. When dinner was finally concluded in a timely manner, dark-skinned servants in their tidy uniforms swept in and out of the large room, clearing the table.

Damon’s pale gaze crept over to his fat, toddling brother, who was being toted off to his nursery by his wet nurse. Eight years younger than Damon, Stefan was tiny and demanding. Wearing a little pink dress that was smeared with bits of food, Damon watched as Stefan’s wide, green eyes blinked over to him.

Stefan made concerned, babbling noises as he reached for his brother—even as he was taken up the stairs. Damon watched Stefan’s little hands make grabbing motions at Damon as the toddler complained loudly at being separated from him, and inwardly, Damon felt a small stab of guilt for neglecting his brother tonight. But Damon had other things that needed doing.

Making a silent promise to Stefan that he would make it up to him tomorrow, Damon received a distracted nod from his father and a gentle kiss goodnight from his mother, before he repeated the perfunctory words of goodnight and went off to his room.

A servant gave him his candle for the evening as Damon splashed water onto his face from a porcelain bowl, washing behind his ears with cold water. Dabbing his face dry with a cloth, Damon lit his candle and shut himself in his room, waiting.

Night fell with the usual bustle, and Damon heard the distant crying of Stefan. But even his brother quieted after the doting of his nurse, exhausted by his own tears. Slowly, footsteps became whispers, and whispers became silence, until stillness finally descended upon the Salvatore estate.

He waited until all the kerosene lamps of the house had been turned off, his parents in bed, and the servants turned in for the night, before he made his move. Damon waited until the only sound that could be heard were from the croaking of toads and crickets outside—until the only light that could be seen was the pale glow of the moon, and the glimmer of starlight.

When everyone was away in their beds, Damon tore off the thick and downy blankets of his bed and crept across his room, the thin white of his night shirt brushing against his bare ankles. Down the hallway, the rug under his toes was soft but cold as Damon glided down the hall with only the moonlight from the windows to guide his nighttime journey. The moon cast a pale, ghostly light on everything in the house—during the day the white sunshine illuminated the splendor of Salvatore mansion. By night, Damon rather thought his house looked like a ghost house, forgotten and abandoned.

Yet all thoughts of sinking drapes and ghoulish bouquets of midnight blooms dissipated as Damon arrived at the room next to his brother’s nursery—it was connected via door, intended for the use of an overnight doctor in the case of serious illness in his brother, but there was no doctor there tonight. Just Bonnie.

With nary a sound or even a creak, Damon opened the door to Bonnie’s room and peered into the darkness.

At first he thought the tree leaves outside were gently scratching at the window from the wind. The sound was soft and whispery, almost like a breath. But as Damon stepped inside the room, he realized that it wasn’t the tree branches at all, but Bonnie.

She was crying.

Damon’s eyes widened as he saw the small lump on the bed, buried under a few blankets as it shivered—not from chill, but from small sobs.

“Bonnie?” he whispered.

The shaking sniffs abruptly stopped as Damon watched Bonnie freeze under all her blankets.

“D-damon?” she ventured, her voice odd and nasally, like her nostrils were plugged from extended crying.

Quietly, Damon closed the door and crept forward, “Are you crying?”

There was a long silence in the dark as he heard Bonnie resituate on her bed.

“…No.”

“Liar.”

Damon heard the beginnings of an irritated sigh when he padded closer to her bed.

“But it’s alright to cry, you know.” Damon added softly.

Bonnie turned onto her back then, and laid there, her head turned towards him—as if she might be able to get a better look at him, even in the dark. Damon could see her face now, for as he himself was shrouded in shadow, Bonnie’s bed sat in the path of a moonbeam.

It painted her in a washed out, pale light, and highlighted the puffiness of her eyes and the shine of tears across her face.

“Yeah?” she asked, a tired little smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

“Yeah.” Damon replied, imitating her vernacular in a soft voice, mirroring her smile. His chest warmed when Bonnie’s smile grew into something less sad.

He stood there at the head of her bed, staring at her in silence. The sounds of the night were loud in their shared quiet, and a span of minutes passed before Damon spoke again.

“Can…can I ask why you cry?”

Bonnie shifted uncomfortably on her bed and looked away with a loud sniff, like she was embarrassed that he had caught her crying. Yet it seemed that whatever hostility and petty competitiveness they had borne in the light day took on a different tone in the shadow of night. Bonnie looked more open, almost vulnerable in the bed she laid on. Ask him yesterday, Damon would have mocked anyone for opening themselves to such intimate scrutiny—yet now, Damon was struck with a desire to be worthy of that confidence. _Her_ confidence.

“I’ve never been away this long.” Bonnie finally confessed.

Damon didn’t need to be told just where she was longing to be. He was silent, sensing in the dark that she had more to say.

“I miss them.” She whispered wetly as fresh tears spilled from the corners of her eyes, “I miss my dad, my Grams…my friends.”

Watching her cry in the dark stirred something in Damon’s chest. And like the darkness had leant Bonnie honesty, the cover of night leant Damon compassion. Without thinking, Damon stepped close and sat on the bed in the space beside her arm. Angling his body so that he faced her, Damon blinked slowly, raising his hand to press a thumb between her furrowed brows. With a gentle touch, Damon eased the line that had formed there from her sorrow. As insufferable as Bonnie could be, he didn’t want to her to be sad. Not with him.

Surprised at his touch, Bonnie met his pale eyes with a question in her gaze—almost silver green in the moonlight, like frost on the morning grass. Damon wasn’t quite sure what he was doing, but for the first time since he had met Bonnie he thought he might be okay with that.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered to her, saying what he had wanted to say back in the library.

“For what?”

“For taking you from your father, your friends, and…this ‘Grams’ you speak of.”

That coaxed a quiet laugh from Bonnie, and Damon found himself laughing too.

“She’s my grandmother.” She explained to him, “I miss her most of all.”

Damon’s eyes were peculiar in their study of her, “…What about your mother?”

If Damon were in Bonnie’s place, he knew that his mother would be the largest ache in his heart. Yet Bonnie seemed almost surprised by his question, like those words had sparked a reminder that mothers were the ones children should miss most. The dim surprise in her eyes turned immeasurably sad.

“Yeah…yeah I guess I miss her too.”

She sounded like she hadn’t let herself admit that for a long while, and Damon was curious, yet he didn’t push.

“And how would your friends comfort you now?” he asked, offering a distraction.

Bonnie eyes were distant as she looked off into a corner with a faint smile, no doubt recalling this ‘Elena’ and ‘Caroline’ she had spoken of before.

“Well, Caroline would tell me,” Bonnie started, looking very fond, “ ‘Bonnie Bennett you get to travel in time! That’s an awesome power! Don’t you dare cry!” she said, her tone imitating a higher pitched voice of exaggerated pep.

Damon smirked, “And Elena?”

“Elena…Elena would tell me that worrying is pointless. That I’d come back and see her soon, anyways.”

Damon considered her words, watching Bonnie closely. Even at the merest mention of her friends, Bonnie’s tears had already stopped. Damon was glad of it—seeing Bonnie so sorrowful made his fingers itch and his chest feel funny. Yet even so, Damon found himself almost envious of this ‘Caroline’ and ‘Elena’, for their ability to comfort Bonnie, even from so far away. Shaking those strange thoughts from his head, Damon bounced lightly on the mattress, and Bonnie’s attention turned away from memory and back to him.

Damon’s voice was an exaggerated imitation of a gentleman’s voice, when he spoke.

“Well then, I suppose it’s my duty to tell you that you have a gift no one else does, and that if you dare shed a tear it should be from overwhelming joy. And—” Damon paused with a smile, holding up a finger, “—that your fretting is needless, for you’ll be long gone soon.”

But even as he said that last part, his affected smile fell slightly. Yes…just as quickly as she’d come, Bonnie would be gone soon. Damon didn’t know how he felt about that.

Bonnie blinked up at him, her wet lashes clumped together in long, dark spikes.

“Are we friends?” She asked.

Damon let his hand drop back to his lap as his legs swung gently, his feet disappearing under the bed as they did so.

“I suppose we are. I mean, if you keep visiting me… that _has_ to mean something, right?”

Damon didn’t like how much it sounded like he was trying to convince somebody of that.

Bonnie hummed thoughtfully.

“But you tried to hurt me.” She pointed out.

“Then if I promise never to hurt you again, can we be friends?”

Damon watched, his heart in his throat, as Bonnie thought it over. He had never had a friend like Bonnie before, and for a reason he couldn’t quite pinpoint, Damon desperately wanted to be her friend. To know her in ways only friends did. To comfort her when she was alone.

The idea itself of someone—Bonnie—thinking of him in the night to dry her tears made his heart ache for want of it.

“If you promise...” She agreed, smiling tentatively up at him. Her teeth were very white in the moonlight.

Damon felt like he could burst from pride, like it was some grand feat getting Bonnie to agree to terms for friendship.

“Then, I do.” Damon promised eagerly, “I will never hurt you again.”

Bonnie popped a hand from beneath her covers and offered it to Damon to shake. He stared at her dark hand for a moment, utterly confused. Ladies of society didn’t shake hands but instead offered them up for gentlemanly hand-kisses. Damon didn’t think Bonnie would appreciate being kissed at this point in their budding friendship, but for the first time the idea of offering one up wasn’t completely revolting to him. Taking her hand in his, he gave it a firm shake, grinning so hard his face hurt. Her hand was very warm.

“Then it’s a deal.” He beamed at Bonnie, wondering if this was how his father felt whenever he closed a business venture. It must be, for all the time his father spent away from the house on business. Damon imagined he would leave the house too, if it meant chasing this feeling for a lifetime.

Bonnie only giggled, clearly amused at his strange mannerisms. Her eyes were dry, now, and Damon was proud. He had done that, _he_ had dried her tears.

Sitting on the bed, breathing in the new air of friendship, Damon had expected it to be a grand affair, with rushing feelings and a sense of giddiness—like a great climax to a long journey. Yet this moment with Bonnie felt the same as the last. It wasn’t loud and exciting as he thought it’d be. It was comfortable and new, and it was strangely… _enough._

And Damon liked it all the same.

“So, Bonnie.” He asked, “What shall the first act of our new friendship be?”

Bonnie turned and hid half her face in the feather pillow, giggling as he stared at him like he was an infinitely strange creature that she had never encountered before. Damon wanted to tell her the feeling was mutual.

“Could you…” Bonnie began, trailing off as she wondered what kind of act would be sufficiently worthy of cementing a new friendship, “Could you, maybe, check under my bed for monsters?”

Damon’s eyes danced with delight as he thought of the Bogeyman. Found hiding under the beds of children like a shadow, his mother had told him many tales of the brutal consequences for ill-mannered children at his hands. Damon adored them all with a macabre sort of joy.

Dutifully sliding off the mattress, Damon smirked as he knelt, peering under the dark of Bonnie’s bed with a sharp eye.

“None.” He reported with mock solemnity, “None except one.” He added as he slipped under the cavernous space between the bed and floor.

Her heard Bonnie sit up with panicked speed, the mattress’ springs squeaking lightly as she bent over the side of the bed, her face upside down as she looked at Damon, who lay under her bed.

“ _What?”_ she whispered fiercely, “Damon, don’t _joke._ Tell me there aren’t any monsters.” She insisted with a seriousness that Damon found amusing.

Damon giggled impishly and reached out his hand, smoothing out the distressed line between Bonnie’s brows again, her short hair looking odd hanging off her head, upside down.

“No monsters here, except me.” Damon assured.

Annoyed at having got worked up over nothing, Bonnie groaned and lifted herself back onto the bed. Damon felt her flop back onto the mattress.

“You’re not a monster, Damon.” Bonnie muttered, just to be contrary.

That was the last thing she said before a long silence took them. Seconds turned into minutes, which turned into tens of minutes. Yet, when Damon began to feel sleep take him as he dozed lightly under the bed, he heard Bonnie whisper something to him. At the corner of his vision, he could see her hand hanging off the bed and jerking slightly to catch his attention.

“Thank you, Damon.” Bonnie said softly, sleep thick in her voice, “You’ll be a good friend, I think.”

He said nothing in response, blinking into the darkness. And after a few more minutes, Damon heard her breathing even out and slow. Bonnie was asleep, her hand still hanging by the side of his face. The floor under his back was hard, not like the soft mattress in his room, but Damon found he didn’t mind it too much. Hesitant, but emboldened by the idea that Bonnie was asleep, Damon reached for her hand, draped over the side of the bed. Circling his pale fingers around the brown skin of her thin wrist, Damon waited for the sound of Bonnie waking, ready to take his hand back. But she did not stir from his touch.

His eyelids hung heavy with the weight of sleep, close at hand, yet Damon smiled a lopsided grin. He had called himself a monster to be under Bonnie’s bed, but it had been a joke—an excuse so that Bonnie would not ask him to leave. As a boy, it would be unseemly for him to share her bed, never mind the earful he’d get from his mother if she found him there. But the warmth of being with Bonnie, from comforting her and winning her friendship, had been too satisfying to leave, just yet.

 _No,_ Damon thought to himself as he held Bonnie’s wrist. _I am not a monster_.

But…but it would be well worth becoming a monster if he could be close to Bonnie, like this.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The passage that Damon is receiving his dictation comes from the 1796 novel _The Monk_ by Matthew Gregory Lewis. It's a Gothic tale that I believe parallels Bonnie and Damon, to a degree, and plays with some of the themes I love about Damon/Bonnie. In it, a monk named Ambrosio falls to the dark side and becomes a monster with the help of woman named Matilda, who becomes a witch to save her own life, after sucking poison from Ambrosio's wound to heal him. They start out pure and innocent, but it quickly devolves into something sinister. Check it out if you're interested!
> 
> I wanted this chapter to illustrate the simplicity of childhood, where you can often become friends because of the most random impulses. Bonnie and Damon are still at that point where complication is a faraway thing, yet they are both the characters we know they'll become, so a bit of foreshadowing was in order. Hopefully Bonnie's self-sacrificing nature and Damon's possessiveness and desire to be loved came through.
> 
> Thank you all the comments and kudos so far! I didn't expect any response to be quite honest, and you've all made me very happy :)
> 
> EDIT: Also, apologies for the odd name switch in Chapter 2. I confused Abby and Sheila's names for some reason. Apologies for any confusion!


	5. Sword from the Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonnie meets Stefan, and Damon is a bit dismayed.

 

 

Bonnie blinked, the early sun warming the back of her white shirt.

“He’s not going to make it.” She pronounced.

Damon’s eyes were blue chips of pure concentration.

“He will.” Damon whispered.

Sitting on the ground with the Salvatore estate in the distance, the dew still clinging to the grass seeped into the seat of their pants. The damp coolness chilled Bonnie’s skin, yet she did not shiver, for already the rising sun promised summer heat that would rival all days before it.

That mattered little to Bonnie and Damon who sat across from one another in the field. A bead of sweat ran down the curve of her back. She gripped the wet grass by her knees, grasping the soft blades between her fingers so tightly that some broke free in her hand.

“Damon…” she warned quietly as her eyes tracked the target of their morning distraction—perhaps chosen unwisely, now that Bonnie thought about it.

Without looking away, Damon cut through her worried words with a curt hand. Bonnie had never seen such a serious slant to his thick, dark eyebrows.

“He’s going to make it. _Believe_ me.” he declared sternly. Bonnie glanced at him nervously.

Between them, the toddling Stefan teetered precariously on wobbly legs.

 _“Go on_ , Stefan.” Damon encouraged eagerly.

The boy turned his brown head, looking over his shoulder to his brother, whimpering nervously under his breath.

“You can do it, brother.” Damon added with a beaming smile. Bonnie had come to call that particular grin the ‘Stefan smile’. It was trademark Damon—a little lopsided, a little bit crazed, but all love. Bonnie only ever saw Damon show this one to his little brother.

“One foot in front of the other, now.” Damon instructed from a ways behind Stefan, looking like he was torn between getting up and holding his brother’s hand and letting Stefan learn to walk by himself.

The toddler turned back around too quickly, and the momentum unbalanced him. Bonnie watched as Stefan teetered dangerously to one side, about to fall. Over the little boy’s shoulder, Damon grimaced in expectation for a fall that never came, for at the very last second Stefan counterbalanced. He planted his feet wide apart and stood straight, his large green eyes staring uncertainly at Bonnie—his destination.

Patting the tops of her thighs, Bonnie’s smile was relieved. Beyond all hope, Stefan was still upright.

“You’re alright, Stefan! Just take it slow. Left foot, right foot.” She encouraged brightly, still half afraid the toddler would trip on his own legs and fall on his face.

Yet Stefan did not fall, he just stood frozen in fear, afraid of the power in his own short legs. They wobbled uncertainly as he struggled to control his limbs and coordinate them as Damon wanted them to move. In his brown dress, Bonnie thought he looked like a little lost girl in the prairie, stuck in the mud.

“Think of father, Stefan, think of _mother_.” Damon called to his brother as a last resort, “Think of how proud they’ll be.”

Damon’s mouth twisted into a half smile, half frown as the words left his mouth. Bonnie knew how much Damon adored his mother. She’d watched Lily with him—Lily who would pepper him with kisses as soon as he stopped talking long enough for her to smother him with affection. And Damon _lived_ for his mother’s love. Bonnie could imagine Stefan adored her _just_ as much.

Yet as she watched Stefan, Bonnie wondered about the father she had never yet seen.

But the encouragement worked. The words of his brother seemed to buoy Stefan where he stood. Bonnie watched as his back straightened, watched his little chest puff up with a deep breath, and watched as his hands turned to fists at his sides. In a moment’s courage, he lifted a tiny shoe and stepped forward. Another foot followed, and then another, and Bonnie watched with bright eyes as Stefan wobbled and tipped forwards and backwards—but _walked_.

_“Yes!”_

A shout of victorious laughter ripped through the air behind Stefan as Damon sprang up from his seat on the ground, tossing tufts of long grass into the air as he punched his fist above his head. The sound of his joyful crowing further emboldened little Stefan and he walked faster towards Bonnie—now only a few feet from him.

 _“Yes!_ Yes, Stefan _go!_ ” Damon called in the distance, a flushed pink high on his cheeks from the excitement, his eyes unnaturally bright with it. His energy was infectious even from a distance, and Bonnie found her heart beat just a bit faster in giddy anticipation.

Determination sat heavy on Stefan’s grim little brow as he sped towards Bonnie, his clumsy haste almost tripping him. He jogged like Damon himself was the wind at his back.

Crashing into her, Bonnie’s breathe was pushed from her lungs as Stefan tumbled into her arms, his little body unexpectedly solid and heavy against hers.

He was shouting some muffled words into her shoulder, his arms flailing when he managed to push himself off her.

“I walked! I walked!” he beamed proudly, “I walked like _Damon_ walks. I walked!”

“You did!” She laughed, wrapping her arms around him as he found his feet again.

This close, Bonnie ran her eyes through the soft brown waves of his hair, so fair compared to the black of Damon’s own. On Stefan’s little face sat two large eyes, moss green and full of wary excitement as he looked at Bonnie strangely, finally realizing that he didn’t really know who she was. His little hands grasped her shoulders as he wondered about the stranger in front of him, wearing his curiosity open on his face.

“Who,” He began, measuring his tired breaths, “Who are you?”

“I’m Bonnie.” She smiled at the little boy, his breathe smelling of fresh milk, “I’m Damon’s friend.”

“Friend?” he asked with wide verdant eyes, “Damon’s friend?”

“Yes. And I can be your friend too, if you want.”

Something in Stefan’s warm, green-brown eyes endeared him to her. This morning when Damon had woken her and handed her an outfit of his to wear, Damon had promptly kidnapped his brother and carried him out here. Bonnie had only ever seen Stefan from within the confines of Damon’s arms. Now that Stefan was here hanging onto her, looking up at her with wide trusting eyes that spoke of gentleness and a calm she had never seen in his brother, Bonnie knew why Damon had been so hesitant to put his brother down in the middle of the field and walk away.

Eyes like Stefan’s always asked you to protect him.

“Bonnie…Bonnie is my friend too?” Stefan asked, blinking with lashes as long as Damon’s. In her chest, she felt something warm unfurl. Before she could answer, Damon shouted for their attention from afar, waving his hands. Bonnie and Stefan turned their heads.

“Stefan come back! Walk back to me!” Damon said, somehow more excited than even Stefan was that he had managed to walk.

And Stefan looked at his brother with adoring eyes, turning away from Bonnie to walk to Damon, unhesitating because of the faith of his brother. His back was straighter, his legs more confident, and where before Stefan had often looked down at his own feet to mind his steps, this time he only had eyes for Damon.

“Quickly now, brother!”

Bonnie watched as Damon beckoned to his brother to walk faster and faster, pushing the limits of Stefan’s legs. His face was alight with pride as Stefan’s slow walk became a brisk trot and almost a run, brushing past the tall grass that came up to his little thighs.

“Just a little bit farther, Stefan!” Damon laughed.

And then when his brother started waving his little hands and broke out into bright laughter, carefree and full of childish glee, Bonnie watched Damon move from his spot in the grass and rush forward. The wind carded through his dark hair as he swept his little brother up into his arms, spinning him around as they both laughed, the sound of their joy echoing across the hills.

“You did it! You walked!”

“I did, I did! I did!” Stefan squealed, almost incoherent in his excitement.

Bonnie walked towards them, feeling a bit like she was intruding on a private moment between the brothers. As they spun round and round, Stefan looked at his brother with such pure adoration in his eyes, you would have thought Damon hung the moon.

The older boy dipped his brother down low so that Stefan could pick a fuzzy white dandelion. As they laughed, alone in their own world, the toddler held his dandelion close and the blew. White seeds dispersed with the wind, the whispering little tufts swirling about the brothers like a hundred wishes—not a single one dashed upon the ground.

Bonnie felt like she was being carried by the wind too as she watched Damon press a kiss to his brother’s fat face. The way his lips lingered on Stefan’s cheek just a little bit longer than usual, his eyes closed as if to remember, spoke of a great tenderness that Bonnie found herself blinking at. One of Stefan’s many wishes stuck to the corner of Damon’s dark lashes.

As Bonnie approached, she heard Damon’s kiss turn into a loud raspberry on his brother’s cheek. Stefan dissolved into squeals as he pushed at Damon’s chest, the dandelion stalk now naked in his hand.

“Damon!” he protested, turning away and catching sight of Bonnie approaching. The joy in his eyes turned to something like recognition and he pointed a chubby finger at Bonnie, tapping his brother’s face for attention.

“It’s Bonnie.” He declared proudly, his grabby hands migrating from Damon’s cheek to squeeze his nose shut, “Bonnie, my _friend.”_

With a splutter, Damon swatted Stefan’s hand away from his nose and turned his head to look at Bonnie. His normally pale skin was flushed pink and his eyes were abnormally bright from romping with his little brother.

“Bonnie!” Damon greeted with an arched brow, “What is this _friend_ business I hear Stefan talking about?”

Bonnie’s green eyes flicked from Damon to Stefan, who was nestled in his brother’s arms. Damon adjusted for Stefan’s weight by shifting him upwards on his hip, but Stefan was a growing boy and he slid right back down. Bonnie couldn't help but notice that Damon's smile had gone a bit flat at the corners.

“I offered to be his friend. ” Bonnie explained, shrugging. Something in Damon’s tone made her oddly defensive, like she had to explain herself to him. Yet something in the back of her mind railed at the idea that she had to explain herself to anyone that wasn’t her dad, or Grams.

Stopping a step away from Damon and Stefan, Bonnie arched her own eyebrow at Damon, an almost-challenge in her eye.

“Is that a problem?”

The odd tightness in his eyes was offset by the easy smile he flashed at her.

“Of course not.”

Oblivious to the barely there tension between Bonnie and Damon, Stefan leaned from his brother, reaching for Bonnie. And just like that, the tension dissolved.

“Bonnie!” Stefan smiled, the sun shining coppery gold in the tips of his brown hair, “Friends hold each other.”

She looked at the toddler with a slightly surprised look before she laughed and lifted him from Damon’s embrace, watching Damon’s practiced hold and mimicking it. Bonnie smiled at Stefan as she rested him atop her hip, her lightly curling hair caught at the corner of her lip. Looking to Damon with a searching stare, she saw him watching the both of them with a peculiar gaze, his blue eyes darting from Bonnie to Stefan, then lowering to the stray hair resting on her lip.

Bonnie didn’t quite know what that look meant, so she busied herself with Stefan—Stefan who was much more transparent with what he was thinking.

“How old are you, Stefan?” she asked him, spinning him lightly as they walked so that he’d giggle that snorting little sound that made her want to put him on a shelf and keep him forever.

“Three.” He said very seriously, pressing four of his fat fingers against the corner of Bonnie’s mouth.

“Oh Stefan.” She laughed, shaking her head to dislodge his serious fingers from her face, “That’s four fingers.”

Reaching with another hand, she caught his little fist and folded his pinky forward. Stefan’s dark green eyes seemed to be mesmerized by the sight of his pale little fist enveloped in Bonnie’s darker hand. It made her a little self-conscious.

“Oh.” Stefan said dully, struggling to keep his pink down before even that bored him and he looked back at his brother who had lagged behind in their stroll around the hills.

“Brother!” Stefan called to Damon, grinning, “Where did you find this Bonnie friend?”

Damon smiled fondly at his brother and undid single button of his dark green jacket, anticipating the nearing noon heat.

“In the wisteria grove, by the riverbed.” Damon answered, humoring his brother, “Bonnie sprang from the water like a river sprite! And when I neared I offered her my jacket, like a gentleman, and we were instant friends.”

Bonnie stopped mid-stride and turned on her heel, throwing Damon and dirty look.

“Instant friends?” she balked, “My knee says different.”

Damon opened his mouth to no doubt spew more nonsense, but Stefan spoke first.

“Your knee?” Stefan whispered, his eyes wide as he placed his hands on either side of Bonnie’s face and gazed with an intensity that seemed misplaced on the face of a child. Bonnie would have stolen a kiss from his fat cheek if she wasn’t so determined to debunk Damon’s fraudulent retelling of their meeting. With an exaggeratedly mournful nod of her head, Bonnie sighed.

“Damon tripped me.” She confided to Stefan, “I think it’s going to scar.”

“What is a scar?” he asked, tilting his little brown head.

“It’s a…well,” Bonnie started, but paused, not sure how to explain what a scar was to someone as little as Stefan. Standing still amongst the grass, little purple pansies dotting the low lying brush, Bonnie blinked, smelling the cool chill of morning’s dew give way to something different in the sun’s rising warmth. Bonnie met Stefan’s curious, green eyes with her own, his little snub nose twitching like a rabbit’s.

Damon came up beside her, his boots brushing softly in the grass. Bonnie turned her head toward him, watching as the wind lifted a dark lock of his hair from his pale face.

“What would you say a scar is, Damon?” she asked.

Something thin passed behind his blue eyes, something embarrassed and guilty. The boy looked down and away at the ground, rocking back on his heels with a contemplative air. A moment passed before he lifted his head again, his eyes on Stefan and a self-deprecating smile on his pink lips.

“It’s a hurt, brother.” Damon explained to Stefan with deceptive lightness, “A scar is a hurt that heals, but never really feels the same after, ever again.”

Bonnie tried not to wince. Even now, under the cloth bindings Lily had wrapped it with to staunch bleeding and infection, Bonnie’s knee faintly throbbed. Hidden under her borrowed pants, the injury stung a little with every step she took.

“You gave Bonnie a scar?” Stefan asked, turning in Bonnie’s arms to look at his brother, as grave as a three year old could be. Damon grimaced under the weight of his brother’s disapproval.

“I’m afraid I did.” He admitted to his younger brother ruefully, his eyes flitting to Bonnie, “Though I did apologize.”

Bonnie looked at Damon for a good long while before replying. It was true that he had apologized. Many times, in fact. All indications pointed to his sincerity and real, heartfelt regret for what he had done. Yet now, something else colored his gaze. Something that begged Bonnie not to make him look bad in front of his baby brother—Stefan, with the adoring eyes.

Stefan, who looked like his entire world would crumble if Damon wasn’t the gentleman that he had always imagined his older brother to be.

“Yes.” Bonnie agreed with a smile, “Yes, your brother did apologize.”

It wasn’t a lie.

“And now you’re friends?” Stefan questioned, his eyes hopeful.

“And now we’re friends.” Bonnie confirmed, and looked to Damon briefly, who walked ahead of her. As if sensing her gaze, Damon turned to look back at her. Relieved, the lines of his shoulders were loose and relaxed once again, as if Bonnie had done him a great favor. With a nod of his head and a shared glance, Damon’s gratitude was clear.

Bonnie looked at the back of his head, contemplating that Damon’s honesty was always quiet, never loud.

For if she knew anything of Damon in the two days she’d known him, it was that he always had something to say, something to mock, and something to shrug off. Bonnie was coming to realize that what came in the spaces between his moments of obnoxiousness were what really mattered.

Bending low, Bonnie set Stefan down, despite his low grumbling protests. The displeased mumblings brought a smile to her face as he stood amongst the grass.

“Up?” Stefan frowned at her as Damon lingered nearby, watching his brother and Bonnie.

Bonnie motioned with a hand to the house, nearer than it was before.

“You know your mother must be up by now.” She offered instead, “Why don’t you go show her what you can do now?”

Bonnie watched as the whole of Stefan seemed to light up at the mention of his mother, like what Bonnie had said was the single most greatest idea he’d ever heard. Clapping his little hands together, Bonnie’s arms forgotten, he exhaled a sound that was half-squeal and half-giggle. If Bonnie had never seen giddiness before, Stefan embodied it.

“Oh! Mother will be so pleased.” he gasped, turning on his heel and walking without assistance towards the house, his stubby legs taking him as fast as he could go.

“Slow down, Stefan!” Damon called as his brother waddled past him, to no avail. Stefan only turned his head and grinned at his brother as he made for the house.

“I’ve got to show mother!” Stefan insisted, his pace and gait improving with every step, even as he descended the hilltop.

A laugh escaped Bonnie’s throat as she followed slowly behind, watching the over eager Stefan waddle with a full diaper on the tip of his toes, looking like a delicate dancer as his brown, tousled head bobbed further and further away. Damon laughed too as he watched his brother make for the house, no doubt proud and happy for his baby brother. They fell in step, side by side as they followed Stefan.

Bonnie suddenly had the absurd feeling that Damon was the father and Bonnie was the mother, watching the first steps of a dear son. She shook her head to clear the strange thought away as Damon spoke.

“What have I done?” he said in a hushed voice, full of mock regret as he tilted his dark head playfully, “I fear I have unleashed a great pest upon our house, teaching him walk on his own.”

Bonnie giggled, a tic at the corner of her mouth.

“You’re so dramatic.” She sighed, “It was his time, I think. Three years old is a little late to learn to walk, isn’t it?”

Damon looked at her and nodded, “I’ve been taking him out every morning since he was 18 months old, putting him on the meadow grass and trying to get him to walk. He never did, until now.”

Bonnie was a bit surprised at his confession. She hadn’t known this was a daily endeavor for Damon. Stefan must have been very dear to him to inspire such devotion. But Bonnie wouldn’t have known.

She had no siblings of her own.

“The doctor said that Stefan was born with weak legs.” Damon continued, a line forming between his brows as he no doubt remembered the doctor’s words. With a light shrug, Damon made a sad attempt at a nonchalant grin, “If you ask me, _I_ think that he just too fond of being held by mother and I to bother using his own legs.”

Bonnie frowned, sensing the cover up for what it was.

“Were you afraid he would never walk on his own?”

By now the sun was high in the air, a flock of geese honking up above, dotting the sky like stray leaves on the surface of a fountain pool. Damon lifted his face to watch them fly by, the sound of their feathered wings in the air whisper light. Bonnie watched Damon follow their flight with clouded eyes.

“That was the fear, yes.” Damon admitted to Bonnie, his eyes still on the sky, “I’ve always worry about my brother.”

Bonnie was silent as Damon blinked, turned his face back to her as the smile he usually reserved for Stefan played at the corner of his lips.

“But he walked today, with your help.” Damon said.

“Oh, I only—”

“No, you did help, Bonnie, don’t downplay yourself like that.” Damon admonished, “Stefan is a gentle soul, and his weak constitution doesn’t afford him many friends outside of myself…or any friends, I should say. Yet he trusts you, Bonnie.”

Bonnie felt her face heat for some inexplicable reason. Damon made it sound like she had done him a great honor by helping him and Stefan today. That somehow, the regard of a three year old meant a great deal. Perhaps it truly did, to Damon.

Damon looked at her like she was a puzzle, like he didn’t quite understand why his little brother had been so at ease with her. Why Bonnie’s added presence had done the job where Damon alone had failed.

“I’m happy to help?” she offered eventually, uncertain. The lilting question at the end of her sentence apparently amused Damon as he laughed and clapped her on the back with cheery energy, his arm a bony weight around her shoulders as he walked them back to the Salvatore estate. Had a stranger passed by and spied the pair, they would have looked like two little boys, the fastest of friends, thick as the thieves boys often were. Strolling in the fields in their white shirts and trousers, little suspenders from England strapped to their pant loops, Bonnie and Damon would have looked like the best of companions, adrift in that haze of childhood friendship, where it was always summer time and a meadow flower bloomed in yellows and pinks each time a laugh was coaxed from the other.

“And I’m happy you’re here, little bird.” Damon grinned, bumping his shoulder against hers playfully. Bonnie was too happy to remember to scowl at his nickname for her.

They walked back to the house in comfortable silence, their sides rubbing up against each other with every step. Sometimes they were out of sync, and they bobbed in strange rhythms that knocked the other out of balance and into fits of giggles, but eventually Damon slowed his pace to match Bonnie’s step, and Bonnie herself widened her stride to match his.

Damon’s arm was still slung across her shoulders when they managed perfect tandem, matching smiles on both their faces as they watched Stefan totter inside the house, calling for his mother loudly.

“You know,” Bonnie started, turning her head just as Damon did, their foreheads almost touching, “Now that Stefan knows how to stand and walk on his own, he’s going to fall every so often.”

Damon’s breath smelled of the lemon cakes they stole from the kitchen earlier.

“Then I’ll be there to catch him. Or to brush him up when he does fall.” Damon declared to her, his dark lashes brushing against his cheeks as he blinked, “We’ll both be there.”

He was looking at her as they both entered the house, the sound of Lily’s shouts of surprise and joy mingled with Stefan’s squeals there to greet them.

And Bonnie wondered why Damon’s words sounded so much like a promise.

 

* * *

 

 _“En garde,_ Damon.”

Bonnie watched from her seat as Damon fell into position, his leading foot forward and his knees bent. In his hand, he held his blunted rapier at the ready, his face flushed and faintly damp with the sheen of sweat.

A tall man circled Damon with a critical eye, his long blonde hair pulled back into a short ponytail at the nape of his neck. Bonnie heard the man cluck his tongue. With a flick of the rapier in his own hand, the man smacked its blunted edge at the backs of Damon’s knees.

“Bend them further.” He scolded as Damon hissed and scowled, even as he obeyed.

“If I dip any further I’ll _fall.”_ Damon protested with gritted teeth.

 _“Non._ You will not. A correct _en garde_ prevents that. _”_ The man replied with a quirked brow, “Your knees must bend beyond your toes. “

“But Mr. Thorne—”

“You will learn the correct _en garde_ and you will hold the position until your legs tremble and give out beneath you, or so help me I will make you _eat_ your sword, Damon.”

Bonnie watched Damon bite his tongue, no doubt swallowing back a sharp retort that Mr. Thorn would only parry back at him. Her green eyes watching, the blonde man circled back around Damon and lifted his face to the sun. He was a handsome man of about 30, his cream colored clothes fitted exceptionally well to his lean frame. As Bonnie popped a yellow candy into her mouth, she thought to herself that he had a face that belonged on a coin.

In the green of the yard where two straw dummies stood impaled atop poles, Bonnie heard him Damon grumble. His legs were beginning to tremble with the strain.

“Eat your sword, Damon.” Stefan repeated mindlessly across from Bonnie, sitting on the lap of his mother. Lily herself bobbed her son on her knee, her hand daintily holding a fan of playing cards, like Bonnie did. Upon the green cloth of the oval table sat the spread of their card game, and at the center was the sum of their stakes—a porcelain dish of candies.

“Stefan, darling. Be nice to your brother.” Lily admonished gently as she laid a card down.

His dark green eye looked up imploringly at his mother.

“In a few years’ time you’ll be learning to fence as well, along with riding, boxing, and shooting.” She clarified as she looked down at a card Bonnie had laid down, a small smile on her lips, “And Damon might be inclined to make you eat your _own_ sword if you aren’t nice to him now.”

Stefan gasped and Bonnie shared a toothy grin with Lily, the two of them sitting in the sunny stone patio just outside the garden perimeter where flowers bloomed and pink stones warmed in the sun.

Just as Damon’s legs looked like they could take no more, Mr. Thorne nodded and slashed his rapier through the air.

“Advance!” he commanded curtly.

Damon’s shaky legs jumped at his direction and Bonnie watched his right foot strafe forwards, his left foot closely following.

“Retreat!”

Damon did as he was told, rapidly stepping back, as if avoiding an imaginary strike. His face was screwed in concentration.

“Advance!”

Damon glided forwards, the motion and the practice of it clearly doing him good. Bonnie had watched him and Mr. Thorne practice for nearly an hour and a half, by now. What Damon had once done loosely with unpracticed coordination was swiftly becoming fluid. It was obvious that Damon was a natural swordsman, a fighter that, with constant practice, Bonnie could envision attaining the same grace that Mr. Thorne commanded. In her hand sat her cards, but she was hardly paying much attention to them anymore. Watching Damon practicing his fencing was oddly hypnotic.

Secretly, she was grateful that Damon hadn’t decided to bring his rapier with him when he’d tried to capture her on their first meeting. Bonnie had the feeling that things would have turned out much worse for her, if he had.

“Strike!” Mr. Thorne urged him sharply.

Damon’s foot pushed off the ground, launching himself airborne with deadly precision, a ferocity bright in his eyes as his arm stretched forward, his off-hand sweeping out behind him as the tip of his rapier stabbed at the dummy’s straw chest, the thin metal of the rapier’s blade bending so far, Bonnie thought it may snap.

Damon’s blue eyes were alight with something Bonnie couldn’t quite name as he turned his dark head, looking to his teacher with a question in his gaze.

“Very good. Your form is improving.” Mr. Thorne praised, nodding his head with a pleased smile. Damon relaxed with a tired but victorious grin on his face before his mother’s clapping pulled his attention from his teacher.

“You were wonderful, Damon.” She called across the yard, her gloved hands muffling her claps somewhat. But Bonnie imagined that even the sound of whispering lace as they rubbed together would bring the light to Damon’s eyes, if it was coming from his mother.

He ran from across the yard, his fencing instructor trailing slowly behind.

“Did you see, mother?” he asked, excitedly, “Did you _see?”_

“I did, darling, and you were splendid.” She assured.

Damon stopped a ways from them and flourished his rapier dramatically, pretending to fend off an imaginary foe with fanciful moves that amounted to little more than excessive twirling and stabbing.

“In no time I’ll be the greatest swordsman in the South.” He boasted with a voracious grin. Bonnie thought he looked a tad bit mad, even as she lifted her drink to her lips.

“Just the South?” she mumbled dryly into the depths of her glass, apparently too loudly as Lily laughed with unexpected mirth and Damon scowled in her direction.

“The whole of America then.” He declared, his large pale eyes glued to Bonnie.

“Mmm hmm.”

Damon didn’t let her skepticism dampen his mood and he slashed through the air again, his smile bright in the sun.

“One day I shall win your confidence, milady.” He said in a mocking, solemn voice Bonnie only heard in story-book narrations, “I shall pull Excalibur from the stone, ascend to crown and throne, and show you, Guinevere.”

Damon finished his grand declaration by twirling and pointing the tip of his rapier in Bonnie’s direction. She wrinkled her nose in distaste.

 _“I’m_ Guinevere?” she asked, her cards forgotten on the table as she stood and walked up to Damon, swatting his rapier from her face, “Why do _I_ have to be Guinevere?”

“Well _I’m_ the one that’s holding the sword.” Damon said, looking confused, “Why? Don’t you want to be a princess, Bonnie?”

Bonnie opened her mouth to protest on principle, then closed it, remembering that not so long ago, all she wanted was to be a princess in her own fairy tale. The tale of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table were familiar bedtime stories to Bonnie—the great braveries and the great failures always colorful and tragic when her Grams painted the story to her in hushed tones.

“Well yes.” Bonnie admitted to him. Yet before the insufferably smug expression could fully form on Damon’s face, Bonnie added, “But not _your_ princess, ‘King Arthur’.”

Damon looked affronted that she dared treat her king with such open disrespect that his mouth fell open with a displeased tilt, his eyes narrowed to slits of open hostility.

“Well…well _good._ I don’t want to be your king either, you ungrateful—”

“Damon.” Lily cut him off, a smile on her lips and a quiet warning in her eyes. She looked amused as she looked between Bonnie and Damon, like she was watching something unfold that only she could truly see.

Behind Damon, Bonnie looked up to see Mr. Thorne come up beside them, chuckling lowly to himself. Resting his tanned hands on his hips, the man towered over Bonnie. She found herself look up at the blonde man, his brown eyes intrigued as he looked down at her.

“I don’t know.” He said to the both of them, the warm accent of his voice striking, “The way you two fight, I’d say that the lady here is more like Morgan than Guinevere.”

Damon looked oddly surprised by the suggestion, “Morgan?”

“Morgan le Fay.” Mr. Thorne clarified, smiling, “Rival to King Arthur and powerful sorceress. She’s a queen herself.”

Bonnie blinked, her face heating for some reason. She fought the urge to look away.

“But isn’t she evil?” Damon asked, looking at Mr. Thorne like he was crazy for even having brought it up.

“I suppose it depends on where you are looking from.” The man answered cryptically.

Bonnie’s head tilted as she pondered the point Mr. Thorne had brought up. Had Morgan le Fay been evil? Everything she did, she did for herself, because no one looked out for her. Not her mother who she shared with King Arthur—not king Arthur himself, who married her to an old King she hated. She took care of herself and the knights of the time feared her for it. Feared her power.

A different kind of smile spread across her lips, something with a bit of an edge to it. Bonnie liked the idea of Morgan le Fay. A few feet away, Lily watched Bonnie with something like renewed interest.

“Oh no.” she heard Damon say as he looked at Bonnie, “What have you done, Mr. Thorne?”

The man only smiled mysteriously as he took the rapier from his own hand and offered it to Bonnie, hilt first, with a little bow from his waist.

“If she fights you with a sword as well as she does her tongue, Damon, then I believe I’ve found my next student.”

“What?” Bonnie asked, eyes wide as she looked at the silver rapier, its handle guard a little more ornate than Damon’s, which looked like a metal cup turned over.

“ _What?”_ Damon echoed, more forcefully. Mr. Thorne was unfazed.

“I’ve seen you watch us, Bonnie.” He said, looking down at her with brown eyes, “You are an attentive observer.”

Bonnie didn’t know what to say to him, half-shy and half thrilled with the idea of learning how to handle a sword. She was never one for the sidelines. Neither was Damon, it seemed.

“But you said I was getting better!” Damon protested, looking like he was on the verge of pouting. It didn’t seem Damon was very fond of the idea of sharing his teacher.

“You are.” Mr. Thorne agreed yet an edge crept into his voice, “But one cannot excel alone. You need a peer—a partner.”

“A partner.” Bonnie muttered to herself as she took the offered rapier, feeling its strange weight in her hands as she gripped the handle and looked up at Mr. Thorne with something like apprehension.

“Wait, no.” she hesitated, feeling nervous, placing the rapier back into Mr. Thorne’s hands like it had burned, “I can’t do this.”

“Why not?” the man asked patiently. Bonnie couldn’t look him in the eye.

“Well, because I’m….well…”

Something sly slid behind Mr. Thorne’s brown eyes as he watched Bonnie search for words.

“From the future?” he asked, deceptively casual. _That_ had Bonnie’s eyes snapping up to meet his gaze. Uncertainty shot through her gut.

“You—you…how did you know?”

He waved his hand in a calming gesture, “Mrs. Lily apprised me of your situation, Miss Bennett, though I admit that I did not fully believe her until I met you myself.”

“Um.” Bonnie replied intelligently.

“It was clear to me that you were not of this time when I saw you.”

Bonnie felt him watching her, patient as she looked to the ground, self-conscious for the first time about the color of her skin. She knew she acted differently from the others that looked like her from this time— _slaves._ Bonnie had a hard time even _saying_ the word, overcome with a sort guilt that she didn’t quite understand. She was supposed to be quiet, submissive, gentle, and accommodating—but she wasn’t, simply because she never had to grow up in captivity and in chains, denied her freedom. She shook that thought away, unsettled.

But it hadn’t been that which had Bonnie second guessing herself.

“I was going to say, well…” Bonnie hesitated, dragging her toe through the dirt, “I don’t think I can do it. I’m a…I’m a girl.”

“Nonsense.” Mr. Thorne said instantly, “In France, we have many fencing clubs where only ladies may duel.”

Bonnie looked from the man to Mrs. Lily. She was smiling encouragingly at her while Stefan waved from her lap. Perhaps no one had told her the things that divided men from women, but it was clear, even in her own time, that some things were for boys and some things for girls. Like cheerleading and football. Her hesitation must have shown on her face, because Mr. Thorne stepped closer and knelt in front of her, his dark brown eyes to hers.

“You have a fire in you, Miss Bonnie, and I am not an easy teacher.” He said seriously as he blinked, the gold of his hair rustling with the breeze, “Yet the question remains—do you want to fight, Miss Bonnie?”

“Yes.” She said, almost desperately. Somehow this was more than just fencing.

“Then pick up the sword, Miss Bonnie.” Mr. Thorne said evenly, “And we’ll start from there.”

He held the rapier in his hand, offering it to her for the second time. This time, when she picked it up she held onto it. Though it was just a piece of metal, shaped into a weapon, something in Bonnie vibrated with an energy she didn’t understand. She felt strong.

Beside her, Damon watched her with something unreadable in his eyes.

Bonnie lifted her face and blinked up at Mr. Thorne, determination in vivid green of her eyes.

“Thank you, Mr. Thorne.”

“My name is Pierre.” He said to her, something almost pleased in his eyes, “Welcome to the round table, Miss Bennett.”

Really gripping the rapier in her hand, the hilt still warm from Pierre Thorne’s large hand, Bonnie grinned like a loon and met eyes with Damon.

“I’m still King Arthur.” He moped, not sounding half as grumpy as she thought he’d be.

“Keep your fancy sword.” She said with a wicked smile, “You’ll need it to defeat me, Damon.”

And she laughed all the way to the training yard, Damon at her heels, spitting all kinds of threats at her back. By the time Bonnie caught herself on the straw dummy, the dry reeds rough against her palms, she was laughing so hard her stomach hurt.

Damon trampled so closely behind her that she swung herself around the straw man to avoid being barreled over. Instead he slammed chest first into dummy, gripping the sides of it and leaning half his body past its bulk so that he was face to face with Bonnie, with only a straw body between them.

“I’m afraid this makes us rivals, little bird.” he said with mock seriousness, catching his breath, “Our friendship must be cancelled.”

Bonnie’s nose wrinkled at the nickname, “I’ll survive.”

Sword in his hand, Damon looked at her and smiled the smile of a boy discovering something, perhaps for the first time.

Bonnie was still breathless and Damon was too—for an entirely different reason.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to say it now. I'm a huge fan of mythology of all cultures and for this story, references Arthurian myth/characters/relics will be featured quite a bit. So if that isn't your cup of tea... _what is wrong with you?_
> 
> With the introduction of Stefan into the story, I hope to include him frequently, behind Bonnie and Damon. I personally believe that the relationship between the brothers has been majorly shafted in the show, when it should be central. I mean they literally have eternity to spend together and they hate/love each other! The angst should be through the roof! I swear, if I didn't love Bamon so much I'd write Stefan and Damon gen fics. That shit has epic potential.
> 
> Anyways, I have big plans for Stefan in this story, so if you have a problem with him, I am truly sorry. I'm striving to write Damon as well as I can, and I can't paint a complete picture of Damon without Stefan. And I wouldn't want to.
> 
> Also, there's a bit of folklore about blowing dandelions. If you manage to blow all the white fluffy seeds from the flower head in one breath, it means you are loved wholly and completely. The more that's still stuck to your flower head, the less you are loved. Sucks to be _that_ person...


	6. Beloved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonnie stumbles, Damon helps her stand and learns something new about what it means to be a partner. Seen through the eyes of their mentor, Thorne.

 

 

 

Thorne waited.

Idling in the Salvatore grounds, the man was perched atop the toppling wooden fence, no doubt a remnant of the distant past when the Salvatore family means had been much more modest. On the post beside him sat a silver tray where two crystal glasses stood, sweating in the air. The water within them was still, disturbed only by the occasional clinking of the ice slowly melting within.

Rolling his broad shoulders, a bronze pocket watch sat in Thorne’s palm, its glass face glinting with every tilt of his tanned hand. The timepiece read 4:46.

Closing it with a click, brown eyes scanned the horizon, washing over the tree line in search of two familiar figures. It was a brisk autumn day and as the wind blew eastward, Thorne turned up the collar of his faded blue coat, woolen and worn—more out of habit than anything. The coat was old French military, bleached grey due to age and use. Those who eyed his strange coat always seemed to assume that it had been his grandfather’s, an heirloom of a bygone age of warfare.

It was an assumption Thorne didn’t bother to disabuse anyone of.

Turning his head to scan the tree line once more, the rough whiskers of his jaw caught on the trim of his upturned collar. Blinking slowly, Thorne stood.

Little Bonnie and Damon were overdue.

Feeling the soft grass give a little under his weight, Thorne picked up his rapier and tucked his pistol into his belt, striding across the field in steady silence as the wind blew strands from his hair bindings to fly free. At the edge of Thorne’s vision, the sun lit his hair like electrum gold threads, whipping in the wind. It was the kind of sunlight that came only in autumn, not quite as white as the summer sun, but not yet so grey as the winter light.

And in the forest ahead, not a single green leaf remained. Autumn had brought its chill and the leaves had blushed scarlet soon thereafter. Brilliant reds among burnt oranges greeted Thorne as he neared the forest’s edge, like fresh paint strokes on a sapphire sky canvas. With something that was not quite a smile, Thorne’s gaze swept over the colored branches fondly. He had always loved autumn best when the leaves fell, whispering lightly because Nature had secrets to tell, and only as she died would her voice take shape.

As Thorne entered the forest, the thick canopy above him filtered out the sun into pink and yellow light upon the forest floor, not yet covered with fallen leaves. The season was still young, as it was.

Yet as Thorne searched for little Bonnie and Damon to no avail, his frown deepened. Underbrush and twigs snapped under his feet as he walked the trail the children had taken under his direction. The narrow footpath was roughly eight kilometers of rough terrain—perfect for Thorne’s purposes. The children would learn endurance on this trail, and balance amidst exhaustion and a rocky, root gnarled ground.

Combat did not always happen when you were fit and rested—and level ground was a luxury not often afforded. Thorne had learned that much years ago.

But the children would not be able to practice such skills if they were lost in the woods, or worse yet—injured and lost. As the wealthy son of a well-known man in Mystic Falls, Damon faced little danger within the confines of the town. Bonnie, however… was an entirely different matter. The color of her skin alone marked her as a target for more than one kind of danger. If unkind eyes had Bonnie in their sights, Thorne feared the worst.

Picking up his pace, Thorne combed the forest path for signs of them. Wherever he stepped, old tree roots crisscrossed precariously, poised to trip the unwary traveler. Thorne, however, never once looked down to mind his step, his sharp gaze sweeping back and forth from tree to endless tree.

There was no sign of either Bonnie or Damon.

He thought of calling for them both, on the off-chance they would hear him, but dismissed the idea. If they were in any kind of danger, alerting any attackers of his presence was unwise.

Even as his vision narrowed and his senses opened up for the barest trace of either child, Thorne kept himself calm by thinking of his pupils, and the particular shape of what part of their hearts he’d glimpsed in the past few weeks, as different as flame and shadow.

He thought of Damon and the boy’s loud, drawn out complaints after every run. His groaning ranged from almost amusing to downright rude at times—a demanding little lord like his father. Yet for it all, when the sword was in his hands, the boy threw himself into his art, tireless in a way that was reckless in its abandon. Sweat on his forehead, his hair flying with his lunges, Damon’s eyes were always alight with the exhilaration of the fight. Though young, there was an unmistakable _fire_ in him, a flame for life that he shared with everyone he met. He fought like he was the blade itself.

Bonnie…

Bonnie was different.

The little dark girl was something else. If Damon was fire than Bonnie was an ember, a glowing scrap not yet ready to spark a flame of its own, just yet. Bonnie was quiet and wary—always wary, and took every task Thorne set her to with hesitation. Inexplicably, she reminded Thorne of those forgotten attic flowers that subsisted only on the morning dampness that leaked into the dark, and the occasional sunlit glare from a window. When brought out and put into the sun and fresh air, the blossoms rarely flourished. Rather, they wilted in the shock, half leaning towards the sun as they withered. As if the uncertainty of what the sun could offer them was ultimately too much to hope for.

Thorne had watched her practice with Damon, uncertain and full of doubt, and had darkly wondered who had forgotten Bonnie in the attic for her to have become the little flower he knew today.

Then a scrap of grey flashed at the corner of Thorne’s vision.

Turning, Thorne caught site of Damon’s back, his grey coat stark against the bark of the trees. Something like relief colored his vision as he opened his mouth to call out to Damon. But the boy ran off before Thorne had the chance, intent on some distant destination. Bonnie was nowhere in sight.

Thorne followed, silently tracing the boy’s tracks as he veered off the path by quite a ways. Bushes and low branches obscured his sight as Damon ran deeper and deeper into the forest, but Thorne kept his deliberate pace. The boy crashed through the forest like a stray bullet would. The ruckus alone was enough to follow him by.

Damon finally stopped at a small clearing, his breaths coming fast even as the pink sunlight through the trees brought a welcome breeze that fluttered through his hair. Thorne watched the boy steady himself on the trunk of an oak tree, his pale hand stark on the brown bark of its bulk, his eyes riveted on something lying on the clearing’s grass.

As Thorne rounded quietly on the other side of the forest clearing, concealing himself behind a stand of trees, the man recognized that it was _Bonnie_ lying on the ground, her eyes closed.

Thorne was not a man that feared much—but seeing the little girl sprawled upon the ground sent something sharp through his stomach.

Yet the unmistakable rise and fall of her chest under her blue coat soothed any worries Thorne might’ve had.

“I thought I told you to go.” she said.

Her eyes still closed, Bonnie’s voice was clear in the quiet of the forest, like the rustling of the trees stopped for her.

Damon stood hesitantly at the clearing’s edge, his bottom lip tugged between his teeth as he chewed it, his dark brows furrowed.

“I came back.” He said to her, “I should never have left.”

“You should have.” Bonnie replied sharply, in a way Thorne had never heard her speak before. She sounded hurt. But as Thorne’s brown eyes checked Bonnie, he could see no injury.

Then he saw the wetness on her face.

“Bonnie—”

“You’re _already_ late. Do you know what Thorne will do to you if you don’t get back there _right_ now?”

Frustrated, Damon stalked towards her, stomping his foot as he looked down at Bonnie like he'd been insulted.

“Do you know what Thorne will do to me if I leave here, _without_ you?”

Thorne shifted behind his tree. That much was true. If he’d learned Damon had left Bonnie behind, on her own, the punishment would be severe.

“Besides, what did you expect?” Damon said, softer this time as he slumped to a kneel beside Bonnie, “We’re partners now. We don’t leave each other behind.”

Bonnie sighed, an ironic smile on her face that was one tilt away from a frown.

“If only it were true.” Bonnie muttered

“Bonnie...” Damon warned.

“We’ve been running all day and I _can’t_ run anymore, Damon.” She said to him, flat and cold as winter stone. Thorne watched as she opened her eyes to look up at him, angry.

The boy said nothing, the furrow of his brow deepening. Above them, sunlight streamed in through the yellow oaken leaves, painting the pair in golden light.

“I can’t keep up with you.” She said into the air, “And I’m tired of trying. Real partners get better together.”

Rolling her head to the side so that she could look at Damon and his troubled expression, her eyes glimmered with frustrated tears.

“Real partners don’t hold each other back.”

For how hard Damon was biting his bottom lip, Thorne wondered if he could taste blood.

“You don’t hold me back.”

“ _Don’t_ lie to me, Damon.” She bit out, vicious in her quiet despair, “Don’t you _dare_ lie to me about this.”

“Well, then don’t say foolish things that aren’t true!” he ground out, defensive and confused.

Bonnie sat up, her eyes bright with hot shame.

“Isn’t it true that every time we practice, I _lose?_ ” she barked at him, “Isn’t it true that every time we run the trail, you slow down so I can catch up? _Isn’t_ it?”

“I don’t slow—”

“I’ve _seen_ you, Damon.” Bonnie interrupted harshly, a tear sliding down her cheek, “You’ve finished this trail in under 40 minutes. I know because Mr. Thorne keeps a record of our times tucked away that book about Monte-Cristo that he always carries around. _Don’t_ tell me you’re not slowing yourself down because of me!”

Damon had been holding his forehead, but suddenly he flung his hands outwards, an incredulous expression not unlike anger on his face.

“But I don’t _mind!”_

Damon’s shout echoed in the expanse of the forest, scaring a couple of crows from their nest and sending them into the sky, the sound of their wings flapping loud in the ensuing silence between Bonnie and Damon.

“I don’t mind.” He repeated to Bonnie earnestly, his brows drawn, “If I have to wait for you as you catch your breath by a tree, I don’t mind! I’ll wait for you if that means we run together!”

Bonnie looked almost surprised at his candor, almost warmed by it, before Thorne could practically see her fold back in on herself.

“And one day,” Damon continued, “when we’re older and stronger, we’ll run at full speed. If it’s not today, that’s fine. If it’s not tomorrow, _I don’t mind.”_

Damon blinked down at Bonnie, his breaths coming fast from his heated tirade, “Do you even know what it’s like, running alone? Before you came, Bonnie, that’s all I did. So if I run a bit slower with you, believe me when I say I _don’t mind.”_

Wordlessly, Bonnie looked away, lying back down on the ground because she was too tired to even sit. The strange silence that hung between the boy and girl stretched like old leather, the weight of Damon’s unexpected confession a weight in the air.

“I mind.” Bonnie finally said, voice choked.

Damon’s eyes gazed down at Bonnie, like he didn’t understand her but wanted to.

Thorne waited in the shadows, watching as Bonnie retreated, setting a hard defense that Damon’s advance was tentatively feeling out. It was a kind of duel Thorne had never prepared them for.

“Why?”

The boy reached down and touched the tip of his finger to her cheek, halting a wet trail of a cold tear, chilling in the September air. He met her hard, green eyes with his own gaze—headstrong blue and unflinching. A silent question for her tears.

Bonnie did not answer for a time, frozen in a defeat that existed beyond Damon and swords. Thorne waited to see what she would do.

As the wind blew eastward, Bonnie’s lip trembled so gently that it could have been a shiver from the cold. Inhaling deeply, like she was readying herself for a memory she hadn’t faced in a long while, Bonnie spoke.

“When I was young, I used to bring my mom flowers.”

Damon looked down at Bonnie, quietly surprised, like this was something he was hearing for the first time—and the rarity of it made it precious.

“Beyond my neighborhood was a little field, before they made parking lot on it. I’d wander out and find the prettiest flowers for her. Yellow buttercups, pansies, daisies, even dandelions if I had to—I’d rub my nose into them and come home with yellow pollen on my face.”

As Bonnie reminisced she laughed, sad and hollow, sniffing to cover any tears that might’ve escaped. Damon didn’t look away.

“And when I’d come home with the flowers I’d picked for her, my mom would…she would lean down and rub her nose against mine so that she’d have pollen on her nose too. Like it was a little something we shared. ‘Thank you, baby’ she’d say to me, and she’d pick me up and hold me for hours.”

Above their heads, a single golden leaf fell to the ground. Neither of them noticed.

“Anyway,” Bonnie blinked rapidly as she wiped a sleeve below her nose, “After she learned that I could…um, travel the way I do—back and forth in time—she stopped letting me pick flowers for her. She stopped letting me do a lot of things. And I think she did it so I would be safe, but after a while, it felt like she didn’t think I could do anything if I was in danger of traveling in the middle of it. I stayed home a lot, after that.”

The turbulent blue of Damon’s eyes burned.

“It got so bad that I,” and Bonnie smiled through her sorrow like it was the only way she would make it through this without shaking apart at the seams, “I started to think that yeah, maybe mom was right about some things about me.”

Damon touched her shoulder, “Bonnie, you’re not—”

“You know, sometimes she’d look at me like I was a stranger, like she didn’t even know me. Like she was wondering why it had to be _her_ daughter who travelled through time—like a freak.”

“Bonnie, you’re not a _freak.”_ Damon hissed down at her, his voice soft but his eyes hard, “You’re _not_ , and if your mom thinks that, then she can just _leave off_ and— _”_

“She did.” Bonnie hiccupped, looking up at Damon with wet eyes.

“What?” Damon asked.

“She did. Leave, I mean.” Bonnie said emptily, “She packed up and left on a Wednesday morning.”

Damon said nothing, even as Thorne himself lowered his eyes. So it had been her own mother who had left Bonnie in the attic to grow in shadow.

Not looking at Damon, Bonnie was determined to go on. For her, perhaps it was like lancing a wound that had festered for too long.

“I miss her. How stupid am I to miss her?” Bonnie confessed to the trees, tears spilling from the corners of her eyes, “My mom gave me up. So I guess I tried to give her up too.”

Bonnie paused and raised an arm, flexing her fingers against the backdrop of the red leaves above her. Her eyes focused upon the gash on her right hand that she’d earned when her grip had slipped beyond the guard and Damon had struck her hand by accident. The angry red wound had scabbed over by now, but Bonnie looked at the crescent wound like it still pained her.

“When Thorne offered the sword to me for the first time… said he saw something in me that I might wield, I believed him.” Bonnie breathed, a weak smile across her lips, “I wanted to be what he saw—a knight of the Round Table—a person people go to when they need help. “

Damon looked at the injury on her hand, already healing nicely. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that Bonnie would have been an admirable knight of King Arthur’s court—perhaps even the perfect Bedivere to his Arthur. Loyal and strong, Bedivere was the only knight Arthur trusted with Excalibur as he laid dying, telling him to throw it back into the enchanted lake from whence it came.

If Damon had to trust anyone with something that was precious to him, he imagined it would be Bonnie.

“Sir Bonnie Bedivere.” Damon ventured with forced lightness, shaking his head “It suits you ill. I’d have had to take your entire hand for that to be fitting.”

Bonnie looked at him blankly, her eyes hooded, “Then I must be Sir Dagonet, knighted as a _joke.”_

Thorne had been looking at Bonnie, his wilting attic flower, unable to see the sun for so long she could no longer recognize it when she looked in the mirror—when a frustrated shout from Damon pulled his attention away.

Lips parted in distaste, Damon looked like had been about to hiss something inadvisable before he thought better of it. The line of his body was coiled tight with tension when he looked away from Bonnie, like he couldn’t stand what he saw there.

When Damon stood, he thought the boy was about to leave, too angry and frustrated to do anything more for Bonnie. Yet as the young boy walked away, his eyes glued to a particularly low hanging branch, he reached out and tore a maple leaf from it. Turning back to Bonnie, he knelt angrily and shoved the leaf in her face.

“Look at this, Bonnie.”

The girl’s confused expression did not deter him, his cheeks flushed red not just from the chill. As he held the leaf to her nose, Bonnie hesitated only for a moment before she let her eyes wander over the maple leaf, which blushed orange from its center, edged in yellow.

From behind the leaf, Bonnie looked at Damon strangely.

“Look at it.” Damon repeated stiffly, “See how it changes color?”

Bonnie’s eyes narrowed slightly in confusion, yet she nodded her head after a beat. Damon twisted the thin stem between the tip of his thumb and index finger, and like a hand, five blades of the leaf swayed before Bonnie’s eyes.

“Does it change overnight?” he asked her, voice harsh.

“I don’t—”

_“Does it?”_

Bonnie looked at Damon with wary eyes, unnerved by his sudden forcefulness.

“No, it doesn’t.” She answered quietly, shifting on the ground.

“Then neither will you.” Damon stated seriously, blinking slowly, “To expect change to be immediate is foolish. And to punish yourself, Bonnie, for not changing quick enough is needlessly cruel.”

Bonnie stared unseeing at the leaf for a moment before she looked up at Damon, like she was seeing him for the first time. Doubt still shadowed her face.

“But...what if don't change at all?" She asked hesitantly, "What if I fail?”

Her voice, quiet and so very uncertain seemed to soften Damon’s anger. He was quiet too for a while as he looked towards the towering trees, like he himself was uncertain.

“All leaves fall, Bonnie.” He said quietly, strands of his dark hair falling into his eyes as he looked back down at her, “But they grow back in the spring. And even that takes time.”

Bonnie watched Damon with something like muted hope, belief and doubt warring in her eyes. The optimism in her was so faint that Damon feared even a whisper would scare it off. So he let her decide what she wanted to feel, waiting for her with patience Thorne had seldom seen in the boy. And when the misery between her brows relaxed into something like acceptance, Damon’s lips turned up at the edges. Reaching down, Damon pressed the tip of his finger between her dark eyebrows, as Thorne had seen him do only once before, smoothing what was left of the line there.

Damon’s hand linger on her brow, and it struck Thorne that the gesture was infinitely fond. It was nothing as obvious as an embrace, but occupied that quiet, special space of something both intimate and innocent.

“If a goddamned tree can do it, Bonnie Bennett, you can too. Don’t quit on me.”

Self-conscious, Bonnie looked down at the toes of her boots, black and leather. She tucked bottom half of her face into the depths of her woolen scarf and stilled, mulling over Damon’s words

“Your mom would thrash you if she heard you curse.” She muttered, somewhat muffled behind her white scarf. She seemed embarrassed now for her moment of weakness and self-doubt. Still looking at her toes, Bonnie missed Damon’s expression turn soft.

Without warning, the boy flopped down on the ground, lying on his back beside her. He looked up into the trees as Bonnie did the same.

“My mother would thrash me for a great many things, if she knew of them.” He said flippantly, sighing with his aching muscles.

And just like that, the heaviness that had been between Bonnie and Damon for the past few weeks evaporated, replaced by something else entirely. Comfortable silence passed in the forest clearing, and at the corner of Thorne’s vision, he saw another leaf fall from its branch.

Bonnie’s green eyes were dry when she turned her head in the grass to look at Damon’s profile, pale and flushed and so different from hers.

“Thank you.” She said quietly as he turned to look at her too, “Thank you for coming back for me.”

Damon’s blue eyes were almost sea-green in the warm light of the forest, his pupils small as half his face was illuminated by a beam of sunlight. A bushy dark brow arched up as he smirked in that way that that was insufferable.

“Who else would I spar with if not you, little bird?” He said with that charming brand of Salvatore insolence he had mastered by the time he was four, “I don’t wait for just anyone.”

Bonnie rolled her eyes, even as she laughed out loud, the sound carrying above them. Thorne watched as Damon stared at the side of Bonnie’s face, lying on the ground beside his partner with half an arm’s space between them.

“You think too highly of yourself, Salvatore.” She said, even as her eyes watched him with something like gratitude. Damon took her light criticism in stride, shrugging.

“If _I_ don’t think highly of myself, who will?” He asked jokingly, but the lightness of his tone changed into something more serious, his smile turning thoughtful, “It’s a habit I think you could benefit from, Bonnie.” He added, softer.

To her credit, Bonnie managed to look only a little embarrassed, turning away. Yet when she eventually found the courage to meet his gaze, her green eyes were resolute.

“Ok.” She said simply.

“Ok, _what?_ ” Damon prodded.

“Ok _, Damon.”_ Bonnie said, mockingly stern, “I’ll think higher of myself.” She promised quietly, “And I’ll keep after it, be it fencing or running—until I get the results I want.”

“And you’ll wait for yourself.” He added with intent eyes, his eyes straying to the autumn leaves for an instant.

“And I’ll wait for myself.” She repeated, her face screwing strangely, faintly amused, “Damon, did you open a self-help book today, or something?”

Damon looked at her like she’d spouted illiterate nonsense, “What is a ‘self-help’ book?”

The laughter that came from her was a bright sound, like the ringing of mission bells, and it had never been lovelier to behold—like the breath after a dive. If there were ever a sound that could spell the end of something sorrowful as definitively as laughter, it still wouldn’t compare to Bonnie’s.

Damon looked so relieved as he watched Bonnie laugh herself to tears, that Thorne thought the boy might cry.

When Bonnie abruptly rolled onto her side and yanked Damon into a tight hug, her arms wrapped snuggly around his neck as she grinned into his neck, the boy looked half-frozen in fear, and half in embarrassment.

But when it became clear that his father wouldn’t come crashing around the tree to tell him how inappropriate an open embrace between a boy and girl was, Damon slowly relaxed into Bonnie’s hold, and smiled crookedly, his arm coming up to haltingly return her overly-familiar hug.

It was more vulnerable than Thorne had ever seen him.

“Thank you.” She said again, laughing, wiping the corner of her eyes. A warm light returned to Bonnie’s eyes, previously dimmed by a weight Thorne hadn’t realized had been holding Bonnie back until today. She looked like she felt lighter than she had in years.

“You are always welcome, Bonnie.”

Thorne watched as Damon closed his eyes, like he was committing Bonnie’s scent to memory, her shaking laughter pressed from her chest to his. He allowed Bonnie to cling to him a moment longer before he gently pulled back, a traitorous red staining his cheeks.

“Well…while I’m glad my apparent ignorance of your ‘self-help’ books amuses you to hysterics…” he said dryly, looking at Bonnie, his eyes darting from her eyes, to her nose, “I like to think I know what it feels like…to be left by a parent.”

Damon’s smile had turned wry as he looked down, “I mean, Father hasn’t abandoned me in the way, I think, your mother did.” He admitted quickly, “But Father is away so often… I think I’m starting to get the message.”

He tried to laugh, but it sounded forced. Bonnie’s expression softened as she regarded Damon, and while she did not attempt to hug him again, she placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it silent encouragement.

“I don’t think we’ll ever be enough for some people.” Damon admitted to her, absently rubbing his cheek on the wool of Bonnie's sleeve. With his eyes glued to a brass button on Bonnie’s coat, he missed it when her smile turn devilish.

“…Fuck them.”

Like Bonnie had slapped him across the face, Damon started violently, impossibly wide eyes whipping up to stare at her, utterly scandalized.

 _“Bonnie Bennett!”_ he squeaked, turning bright red.

“You heard me.” She snickered, “Your father, my mother—fuck them.” She declared conspiratorially.

“You can’t just curse them so vulgar—”

“Yes I can.” She said with new found determination, “If they wanted to correct us, they should have stuck around to do the job. Since they’re not by their own choice, we should just f—”

Damon clapped a hand over Bonnie’s mouth, his eyes comically wide. He looked mildly confused at his own actions, like his hand had moved of its own accord to preserve his own virtue. Bonnie’s eyes looked sly.

“I—I don’t think I like this new you, Bonnie.” He said shakily, a lie to his own ears. From behind his hand, Bonnie raised both her brows like she was telling him to deal with it.

“Look, while I think I agree with the general sentiment of your…statement, must you do it so _loudly?_ ”

Bonnie pushed his pale hand from her face, “You said it yourself, Damon. One day you and I will run at full strength. We can’t do that if the weight of my mother—and your father—is still hanging around our necks.”

Damon looked at his friend with a strange expression on his face—something like terror, terror mixed with an excitement that he could hardly hide. It was like the idea of completely shucking off the disappointments of an absent father was too good to be true. Yet all thought of whether it was proper, or whether he was even _allowed_ to, were slowly falling away in the face of Bonnie.

Bonnie, who was asking him to jump off a cliff with her.

“So, how about it? Full speed ahead?” She asked, holding out her hand for him to take.

Damon looked into the depths of Bonnie’s eyes for a moment and saw something that stirred realization. It was Bonnie’s cliff too, and something in her eyes told him she desperately needed to jump it, but she couldn’t do it alone.

And what were partners for?

Damon would have laughed hysterically in the face of what he was about to do, if he could remember how to breath.

Abruptly pressing his palm into hers, determination cemented in Damon’s eyes as he clasped their hands together.

“Full speed ahead.” He whispered to her.

Thorne watched as Bonnie and Damon stared at each other, smudged in sweat and dirt, tired and aching, and looked at each other like they had never felt lighter. They were positively aglow with it, their secret knowledge, their promise to go forward, no matter what.

Neither child seemed to realize that they’d forgotten that someone was waiting for them at the end of the trail.

Neither child also seemed to realize that the trees arching above their little clearing was slowly shedding its leaves. As Bonnie and Damon laid on the forest floor, clasping each other’s hands, the leaves drifted down around the pair like flakes of gold in a bottle of Goldschläger, glinting vivid scarlet and orange in the sun.

Steady like slow snowfall, Thorne lifted his eyes to watch the autumn leaves fall—the air noticeably absent of any gale or wind. More than unusual, it was…curious.

“Bonnie Bennett.” Thorne heard Damon breathe, grinning like he was in awe, “You’re going to Hell.”

“Then, you’re coming with me.” She said prettily, scrunching up her nose in that way that was almost unbearably endearing, even to one as stern as Thorne.

Leaves fell around them and Damon only noticed when a ruby red leaf found its way into Bonnie’s hair. Distractedly, he picked it off her.

“My mother warned me about girls like you.” He teased, a glint in his eye, “Temptress. Sorceress. Improper. You really are Morgan le Fey, Bonnie.”

Tossing the scarlet leaf to the side, Damon’s smile dimpled his cheeks, “Though I’ve always wanted to see Hell.”

Thorne’s brown eyes watched as Bonnie laughed and lifted her brown hands to catch the falling leaves. Three fell into her palms, and Bonnie wasted no time in dumping them onto Damon’s face, beside her. His subsequent spluttering and indignant shouts as he rolled away only threw Bonnie into harder fits of laughter.

Thorne stepped back, considering the scene. It was a little like something from a painting, except he doubted that any painter would be able to faithfully capture the way Bonnie’s eyes look like that spring green that had no place in an autumn forest—or the way Damon’s pale skin flushed red, bitten by the cold, the delicate shell of his ear turning pink as he dodged Bonnie. There was something tentative in the air, something that teetered on the precipice of something new and undiscovered that Thorne imagined only the most skilled painters would be able to replicate on canvas.

That and Thorne tasted _magic_ in the air, humming with its unique energy around him.

With an intrigued tilt of his head, Thorne’s eye fell on Bonnie. Was it her?

Bonnie was different. That much was certain.

Folding his arms behind his back, Thorne turned his eyes upwards to the forest and gazed into its heights, unseeing, as he thought of Bonnie Bennett. He knew little of the girl-out-of-time, and perhaps today, he had learned more than he had previously known. But she was still a mystery.

And now the tree leaves fell, before their time, around Bonnie and Damon, like a showering of dyed rice under a church’s dome. His brown eyes strayed to the sun in the sky, and upon it he lingered. Not bothering to squint, the brightness of the star was unable to hurt eyes like his.

Silently, he questioned just what the star had in store for Bonnie Bennett—beloved of Nature.

Seeing Bonnie run about the falling leaves that fell nowhere else in the forest, Thorne wondered just what kind of creature she was, to be honored so by the Universe.

Year after year, nature died and renewed itself once more in the spring, a cycle of never-ending rebirth that began with the death that was Autumn. Thorne was fond of the falling leaves not only for their beauty, but because resurrection was also a hobby of _his._

If Nature loved her so, Thorne wondered if resurrection would be a hobby of Bonnie’s as well.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all! Thanks to all of you, I reached a bit of a milestone with the last chapter—100 kudos and 1000 hits! Thank you again for all the reads, kudos and comments. The support _is_ felt, I assure you.
> 
> For this chapter, I wanted to explore what it might've been like for Bonnie to be left by her mother, the first person (in a tragically long line) to prioritize something else over Bonnie in TVD canon. It's never truly explicitly mentioned in the show, but I imagine being abandoned by a parent might do a number on any child's self perception. Bonnie overcomes hurdle number one in this chapter when she realizes that she _is_ capable. In the show, she doesn't quite realize this until the manifestation of her magic powers as a witch. One of my intentions of introducing her to Damon earlier on is to spark this change in Bonnie sooner, which will impact things to come. The leaves falling as Bonnie and Damon buoy each other is not a coincidence :)
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it! As always, comments and kudos are welcome.
> 
> Also, little tidbit. During the Civil War, the Union soldiers wore blue uniforms and the Confederates wore gray. Little hint of what's to come!


	7. La Vie en Rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lily learns a thing or two from Bonnie and makes a promise. Damon, in a fit of inner turmoil, makes a mistake that he can't ever take back.

 

 

 

Lily was not blind.

As much as Giuseppe liked to think she was—as much as her son often believed her to be, Lily was quite aware of what was going on. The light of the winter sunset filtered through the linen curtains and warmed where it touched. And where Lily had cracked open a window pane, the dry air of winter’s chill took the edge off of the steam lingering in the washroom. Holding an elegantly curved pair of scissors under a stream of water, Lily watched as the silver blades glinted in the light of her candle, resting on the countertop.

No, Lily was not blind. In a breath that was not quite a sigh, Lily looked down and away, resting her palms against the cool stone of the washroom table—a new addition to the house courtesy of her husband, recently returned from Italy and its many novelties.

He’d come home with new contracts, new rugs, new fixtures for the house, and traded their simple, wooden tables for those of Italian marble surfaces and thick, flowery wooden legs.

Magnificent as it was…Lily still felt like she missed the warmth of just wood. Little things like that had comforted her when already, so very little warmth was left in this house.

“Miss Lily?”

Startled from her thoughts, she turned her head and blinked over at Bonnie, who sat neck deep in a copper tub. The girl blinked back, her little brown hands gripping the sides of the hammered basin like she was still deciding whether she wanted to stand for a bath—like she had when Lily had first called her for one, months ago, and Bonnie had…Bonnie had looked _up_ at the wall expectantly, like she had imagined water to rain down from somewhere so strange.

Watching the girl’s wet lashes drip back into the bath, Lily smiled, “I’m sorry, darling, don’t mind me.”

Shaking the excess water from her scissors, Lily took her seat beside the basin and Bonnie.

“Old woman like me.” She teased lightly, “Attention is the first thing to go.”

Never mind that amongst those that mattered in Mystic Falls, Lily Salvatore was a name whispered before that of her own husband—and for good reason.

Bonnie looked up at Lily as she idly splashed in the warm water, a quizzical tilt to her head

“And how old are you?”

The question surprised a laugh out of Lily, despite herself. So forward! It filled her with a delight that felt soft and bright within her bosom, to look upon this little girl and remember that Bonnie was not of this time. And it warmed Lily to imagine that there would be a time where a little girl could ask a question without fear—especially a little Negro girl. Watching Bonnie running alongside Damon for the past four months, Lily often forgot that Bonnie did not belong. Dressed in Damon’s play clothes, dirt smudged and linen, Bonnie had somehow fit herself their household like a spontaneous cross-stitch in the eminently proper tapestry of the Salvatore family—a thread of gold that was a bit crooked and a bit off in their monochrome embroidery, but nonetheless added an indescribable charm to the places she weaved herself into.

“Old enough that my boys ask for their father these days, instead of their mother.” Lily smiled as she replied, reaching for a lock of Bonnie’s hair. The damp of her bath had curled the girl’s dark hair into a loose ringlet, and with a gentle snip, Lily lifted the cut hair and deposited it onto a towel.

America was her country and it would shelter and protect her sons and their children to come—that Lily would always be grateful for. But the barbarism of the slavery still practiced here would never cease to fill her with nausea. In her home country of France, slavery had been abolished long enough that even the mere mention of Americans led to a distinct wrinkle to the nose.

Bonnie looked at her with something like a question, unspoken yet present beneath the surface of her green eyes.

“Is that why I’m staying in your rooms tonight?” She asked instead, “Because um, Mr. Salvatore is home?”

Pausing in her trimming of Bonnie’s hair, Lily dipped her hand into the warm water and fondly scooped a handful onto Bonnie’s bare shoulder, watching the water spill down the dark of her skin.

“Yes, darling.” Lily said, combing through Bonnie’s hair with her fingers as she trimmed more of Bonnie’s hair, an inch or two below her jaw, “Sweet as you are, my husband isn’t likely to understand… your circumstance.”

Lily watched as Bonnie looked down into the water, her wet hair falling forward to curtain her face as she lifted her hand out of the water, and promptly submerged it again. Raising her eyebrows at the tension in the girl’s shoulders, Lily spoke.

“Come now, Bonnie. I’ve never known you to be silent when there was something to be asked.” She prodded kindly, an upward curl at the corner of her mouth.

Without looking up, Bonnie’s eyes followed the waves her hand was making within the basin, the ripples lapping at the copper rim precariously.

“Is it because I’m black?” she asked, quiet and subdued in a way Lily seldom heard.

It took Lily a moment to realize just what Bonnie was asking, the word coming from the little girl’s lips to describe herself foreign. The smile on Lily’s face promptly turned downwards, a line appearing between her furrowed brows.

Touching the tip of her fingers below Bonnie’s chin, Lily gently lifted the girl’s downward stare. Reluctant at first, Bonnie eventually met her eyes. It took but a moment between them before the uncertainty in the green of them bled away. Absently, Lily wondered what the girl saw in her own eyes to prompt such a reaction—or perhaps more appropriately, who.

Lily smiled inwardly.

“It is because my husband is a blind fool, who would not see what _I_ see when I look at you. Not because of you,” she said unflinchingly, a kind tilt to her lips, “Never you.”

Like a challenge for Bonnie to _dare_ question her own worth, Lily arched an elegant brow and watched as the sincerity of her words soothed away Bonnie’s frown into a smile.

“I do not know what kind of future lies ahead,” Lily continued, letting go of Bonnie’s chin to brush away strands of trimmed hair from Bonnie’s cheek, “But I can imagine things will not be like they are now, for your people. Were we but in France—my home—you would not need to hide.”

Lily could see the precise moment that Bonnie’s mind transported her to the world of her imaginings, her eyes bright and distant as she smiled and leaned back against the copper tub again for Lily to better trim the back of her head.

“What would France be like?” Bonnie whispered with undisguised delight, as if this shared fantasy of theirs was something like a secret, though after a fashion, perhaps it was. To say that the slaves of America longed for liberation and a better life on distant shores would be an understatement to Lily—yet none of them dared speak of it, for fear of their masters. For fear of the lash.

Though Lily and Bonnie did not share in their particular brand of suffering, perhaps in this small way Lily imagined they all longed for liberation… of a sort.

“France is not perfect.” Lily said as she cut Bonnie’s hair, trying not to think of the new Second Republic that had newly declared itself two years prior, amidst the whispers of the return of an emperor, “But when one is in _Provence **,**_ the world’s troubles melt away.”

“Really? Where is Provence? I’ve only heard of Paris.” Bonnie proudly contributed.

“Of course you’ve heard of _Paris.”_ Lily laughed, gripping Bonnie’s damp shoulders with an affectionate shake, her words only slightly more curved by the French accent she usually kept in check, “There’s not a civilized soul in the world that has not heard of Paris!”

Bonnie giggled, the water sloshing around her, “My teacher called it the ‘City of Light’, I think.”

That stopped Lily short, her eyebrows arching up in intrigue. She had not heard of that particular name for the city, spoken by anyone.

“Oh?” Lily asked the girl, hoping that the turn of curiosity in her voice was not too apparent, “And why’s that?”

Bonnie tilted her head, lips quirking downward in thought, “Well, for the street lamps I’d think. At night, my mom—”

Bonnie cut herself off, abrupt, surprisingly even herself. Lily stopped cutting and looked down at the girl’s dark head, concerned. The silence that followed the little girl was almost embarrassed.

Embarrassed by how easily she’d talked of her mother, even though she’d never spoke a word of her to Lily before? Or perhaps she was embarrassed that still, just the mention of her mysterious mother still tied her tongue and choked her words from her.

Quiet, Lily set aside her scissors and laid a hand on the curve of Bonnie’s nape, gentle and a steady comfort. As the silence stretched, punctuated by the occasional sound of the tub’s water lapping at the edges, Lily sighed and moved her thumb across the soft skin of Bonnie’s back, weighing her words carefully. Yet before she could speak, Bonnie surprised her by talking first.

“My mom went to Paris once, with my dad, before I was born.” Bonnie said, her back straightening under Lily’s hand.

Lily offered her silence like she would a comforting embrace.

“And everywhere they walked, across bridges and down street cafés, they would play this song. At night when I was little, my mom would sing that song to me.” Bonnie said, and Lily could hear the smile in her voice, small as it was.

Lily turned her eyes to the window into the gathering darkness of night, and tried to imagine the Paris Bonnie’s mother and father might have walked. She knew not what kind of lamps could light a whole city, but she imagined that it was simply just another mystery of Bonnie's future.

“What song was it?” Lily asked softly, wordlessly pouring water over Bonnie’s bare back.

The girl smiled a distant smile, something faded by time but illuminated by memory—no doubt lovingly tended to by frequent visitations in the night, her head pillowed on feather softness.

“ _La Vie en Rose.”_ Bonnie breathed, “My mom would say that only in Paris, where the lights at night are pink, did the song make sense.”

Something in Lily’s chest tugged as she thought of the streets and charms of her home, illuminated by what she imagined was hundreds of candles, their flames gently golden and pink, warm beyond grief. Beyond the cold.

Against her better judgment, Lily edged forward on her seat, a little uncertain and feeling foolish for it.

“Would you…” she began, unsure if it was the place and time to ask, “Would you sing an old woman a song? To remind her of home?”

She heard the water move as Bonnie turned in the copper basin, twisting around so that she faced Lily, something a little sad in her eyes, but the smile playing on her face sincere.

“I don’t sing very well…and I’m pretty sure my French is totally wrong.”

Lily flicked water at Bonnie’s little face fondly, “And I welcome it, Bonnie dear.”

Far away from them, the sun had almost sunk completely below the horizon, save for the last rays of its light, suffusing the darkening sky a rose colored gold. A brisk breeze drifted into the washroom from the window, the flames of Lily’s candles moving with nervous energy—yet even they flickered quietly, as if in wait for Bonnie.

She began so softly that at first that Lily had almost mistaken it for a whisper. Humming something quietly, Lily listened as Bonnie weaved together a tune that was unlike anything she’d heard before.

Lilting and light. Whimsical and warm.

Bonnie’s humming resonated with the damp expanse of the washroom, her voice gaining volume as she grew more comfortable in the feel of her song. From a glass bottle on the shelf, Lily rubbed lavender oil onto her palms and motioned for Bonnie’s feet, which the girl propped obediently onto the basin’s rim, humming all the while.

Lily rubbed the fragrant oil into Bonnie’s feet and up her slender calves, a scent that reminded her so much of the open fields of rural _Provence_ , on a long-ago holiday into the country. Bonnie’s humming had continued, settling Lily into mood so languid that she was almost startled when Bonnie began to sing in her quiet, girlish tones.

_Des yeux qui font baisser les miens_

_(With eyes which make mine lower)_

_Un rire qui se perd sur sa bouche_

_(A smile which is lost on his lips)_

_Voilà le portrait sans retouche_

_(That's the unembellished portrait)_

_De l’homme auquel j’appartiens_

_(Of the man to whom I belong)_

 

Bonnie’s non-native tongue curled oddly around some syllables and vowels, but Lily found her strange way of speaking charming. Yet more than that Lily was struck by the words of the song, almost humorously at odds with the little girl that sat within the tub—words of passion, words of a lover.

Feeling her toes curl upon the wooden floor, Lily found herself transported, the lyrics declaring baldly, unashamedly, of intimacy that spoke to something heavy in her chest.

_Quand il me prend dans ses bras_

_(When he takes me in his arms)_

_  
Il me parle tout bas_

_(He speaks to me in a low voice)_

_  
Je vois la vie en rose_

_(I see life in rosy pink)_

 

Lily watched Bonnie sing, quiet and sometimes thin, and wondered if maybe, love could be that simple. Even as Lily made out the words of her tongue, almost hopelessly optimistic about love, about joy, the corner of her eye caught on the strip of light shining from beneath the washroom door.

Two shadows, in the precise size of two feet, approached noiselessly—precisely the way a young boy might creep if his attention were suddenly captivated by distant song. Bonnie had not noticed, but Lily did not miss the way the shadowy feet stopped right outside the door, not entering but not leaving.

Bonnie hummed the parts she did not remember, and Lily turned her attention back to the girl, who hummed as Lily finished rubbing the lavender oil in between her toes, her green eyes flicking up to Lily’s face.

Abruptly, Bonnie switched to English, the rhyming scheme unusual and enchanting.

_And when you speak, angels sing from above  
Everyday words seem to turn into love songs_

The little girl’s voice cracked a bit on a high note, and she smiled with a little embarrassment, flushing pink in a way that had nothing to do with the steam.

_Give your heart and soul to me  
And life will always be La Vie en Rose._

Bonnie ended with a little self-conscious not-smile, and looked to Lily for her reaction with such hesitance, Lily would have had to have been heartless not to give the girl anything she could possibly want. Swallowing the strange roil of emotions that Bonnie simple song had pulled from her, Lily knelt by the copper basin and pressed her lips to the girl’s forehead.

“Thank you, darling girl. That was beautiful.” She declared into Bonnie’s skin, “I think I may even cry.” 

And yes, Lily's eyes were a bit damp. Songs of love, it seemed, were few and far between.

“But come now." She said hurriedly, pushing her thoughts aside, "I’m sure the bath water has cooled and we don’t want you to look like a dried tomato, now do we?”

In a flurry of commotion that was as much Bonnie’s silent preening and her own self-consciousness over the shine in her eyes, Lily pressed a plush towel to Bonnie’s head as the girl gingerly stepped out of the tub, the water running down her body to the thick mat on the floor, darkening the red of it to burgundy.

Rubbing the towel down Bonnie’s limbs, Lily worked with the tender efficiency of a mother who’s only experience in bath time was with unruly and uncooperative boys. She found herself smiling as she rubbed Bonnie’s flanks with ignoble intent, and laughed at Bonnie’s startled giggles—the girl folding in on herself like a shore clam to avoid any more ticklish prodding.

“Bonnie darling, come back, I need to finish drying you or you’ll catch your death!”

“ _No,_ get away from me!”

The girl’s unrestrained and incredulous shrieks were darling to behold, her little nose flaring intermittently with the intensity of her full-body laughter. Uncaring of her nudity, the girl bumped into the tub in her efforts to get away from Lily, and she would have fallen back into the soapy water if it hadn’t been for Lily’s saving hand.

It was a rare moment of pure silliness from the both of them, and Lily found herself infected by Bonnie’s good spirits, her smile so wide she thought her face might split from the delight. Chest to chest and recovering from the triumph of avoiding a wet death, Lily and Bonnie laughed until they could laugh no more, the vibrations of it all felt through each other.

“Bonnie,” Lily giggled inelegantly, “I think we’ll wake the entirety of Mystic Falls if we don’t stop.”

“You first.” Bonnie snorted, saucy as any French schoolgirl.

And it was with that, that Lily looked into the bright face of Bonnie and was struck with the realization that this darling girl had somehow, along the four months of her unexpected stay, become quite dear to her. Her wit, her spirit, her sweetness all lending themselves to the unpredictability that was Bonnie Bennett. It was as if a fresh breeze had blown into the house with her arrival.

“Oh, Bonnie.” Lily said, reaching down to gently touch the girl’s check, “What I wouldn’t give to have a daughter just like you.”

Lips quirking a little downwards, Lily looked past Bonnie towards a speck on the wall, “Your mother must miss you very much.”

Bonnie was quick to look away, blinking rapidly, “She doesn’t.”

“Darling, how could you think that?”

Bonnie shook her head, looking up into Lily’s face.

“She left me when I was seven.” The girl said quietly, “She doesn’t miss me.”

Lily pulled back a ways, just an arm’s length away, to look at Bonnie, concern written into every feature. Of course, she had always heard of it happening, in the far away corners of town—the rare instances when a mother would leave her children in the night. Yet, Lily had always thought it happened to those wretched families where love and sweetness had no home, to the unwise or the uneducated. Looking down at Bonnie, watching all of her previous delight fall away at the thought of her mother, Lily’s heart ached.

“Bonnie.” She said gently, squeezing the girl’s bare shoulder with a sad smile, “I’m going to be rather forward and embrace you now. May I do that?”

Something glinting in the girl’s green eyes seem to find amusement in her question, but Bonnie nodded anyway, her eyes dry. And so wrapping the girl in the warmth of the soft, plush towel, Lily pressed the little girl against her in an embrace that Lily hoped would soothe away any pains of the past. It was a foolishly optimistic thought, but one made in earnest affection.

Breathing in, Lily sighed, the warm scent of Bonnie’s freshly soaped skin filling her head as a lightly curling lock of Bonnie's hair tickled Lily’s nose.

“Wherever your mother is now, I can say with the certainty all mothers know,” She whispered into the shell of the girl’s ear, her heart heavy, “that she misses you, darling. And that she still loves you. Never question that, dear girl.”

Lily felt the girl’s frail arms come up around her back in a tentative embrace that tightened as Bonnie pressed her face into the silken shoulder of her nightgown.

“I know. I know she loves me.” Bonnie muttered, the sound muffled against Lily’s chest, “But if she loved me enough, she’d come back.”

 _If I was enough,_ was left unspoken.

The woman's knees hurt against the hard wood of the floor where she knelt, but Lily paid it no mind as she held Bonnie closer to her, closing her eyes so tight that she could feel the weight of her lashes against her cheeks.

“Sometimes…” Lily said, her voice thick as she glanced toward the shadow of feet under the washroom door, blue eyes dark, “Sometimes love is not enough, darling. No matter how hard we try.”

Letting Bonnie go, Lily sat back on her haunches and mustered a smile, eye level at last. Reaching out, Lily brushed a playful finger down her cheek.

“But do you know what _is_ enough, Bonnie Bennett?” Lily asked, her eye brows lifting.

“What?” the girl asked, lips quirking upwards despite everything.

“You are.” Lily whispered, “And don’t you let anyone tell you different. You’ll find your _la vie en rose_ , soon enough, dear girl.”

Bonnie smiled, a radiant thing that Lily found herself mirroring, before she prodded the girl’s flank, where she knew Bonnie was ticklish, herding her towards her folded nightclothes.

Giggling as she pulled on her nightgown over her head, Bonnie’s eyes were bright with something Lily hoped was healing. The shadow of feet under the doorway were gone.

“What about your _la vie en rose?”_ she asked.

Lily slowly stood, her knees cracking as she straightened and stepped towards the window, closing the cracked pane with a gentle push and a latch. Outside, Lily watched snowflakes fall like crystal suspended in the clearest water, slow and cold. If she tilted her head and imagined it _just so_ , Lily thought she might be able to see Paris like Bonnie had painted—a city of light and love.

 _“La vie en rose,_ ” Lily whispered wistfully, before turning to look back at Bonnie, “I had my taste, I think, not too long ago. But perhaps I will find it again, someday. Perhaps even in Paris.” She said, smiling at the thoughtfully folded towel Bonnie had placed back on the table.

Bonnie lingered, her hand on the knob of the door, “Promise you’ll tell me about Paris?”

 _When you come back_. _When you return, because you won’t be like my mom._ _You won’t do that to Damon. To Stefan._

Lily’s smile was like the winter moon itself, cool and incandescent as she turned it on Bonnie, the clarity of something like courage in her blue eyes.

“I promise, dear girl.”

Later that night, as Lily closed the curtains of her room and blew out the candles, the scent of hot wax and wispy smoke in the air, Lily slipped under the floral coverlet, careful not to disturb Bonnie. Lying on her side, her own night gown riding up past her calves under the blanket, Lily looked upon the little girl, her eyes wandering about her form and face, her little chin tucked beneath the soft blankets. The sheets were pleasantly cool against Lily’s toes.

As Lily laid in the dark, her mind running through everything and nothing, Lily finally put aside the thoughts of her husband and this game the two of them played, using their own children as chess pieces. She put aside questions of how and when they had come to this…petty war of distance and silence, instead of words and love.

And as she drifted off to sleep, her eyes closing to the familiar smoothness of her bedroom ceiling, a little tune, silken and sung in the echoing damp of a washroom, wove itself into the blue of Lily’s dreams, painting itself in lilac skies and a rosy sun.

And for the first time in a long while, Lily fell asleep letting herself imagine that something better would rise on the horizon, soon.

 

* * *

 

The first thought in his mind when he awoke was that the birds weren’t singing. Bizarre as it was.

Blinking away the remnants of a cold dream, Damon sat halfway up, propping himself on his bony elbows. As the thick, warm blankets slipped from his shoulder, Damon looked to the window. Though there was not yet even the hint of sunlight, breaking upon the horizon in the winter’s dawn, Damon knew, inexorably, that it was morning—the way all little boys seemed to know that nap time was over and it was time for mischief. Sleep-damp fingers teased the dust from his eyelashes before Damon smiled, sleepy and lop-sided, as he gripped the edge of his feather blanket and threw it aside.

Slipping from his bed, Damon stumbled clumsily, breaking his fall with a careless palm against the wooden floor, hissing from the chill of it. Shaking it off, Damon crept to the edge of his room and slipped the length of his sleeve over his hand, palming open the door knob with the finesse of a boy who often found himself slipping out his door, on nights where anything metal in the house was colder than death.

He kept to the rug that ran the length of corridor, until he reached the nursery—Stefan’s door. Gently opening his brother’s door, he peaked in, one blue eye scanning the darkness of his brother’s bed and the fat little troll sleeping upon it. If he quieted his own breaths, Damon could hear his brother’s, fluttering in that way that meant his brother had a booger or two lodged in that button nose of his.

Swallowing a snicker, Damon glanced at the adjacent door, the one he’d come to know as Bonnie’s, before he decided a little detour wouldn’t hurt his plans for the day too much.

Padding into Stefan’s room, he was quickly dismayed by the chill of the air—and the low fire in Stefan’s hearth that was the source of it. Scowling, his boyish face twisting into one of supreme dissatisfaction, Damon shot a glance at his sleeping brother and made a mental note to deliver a stern talking to the servants in charge of tending to the winter hearths. The cold air wasn’t good for anyone’s lungs, let alone his little brother’s.

As Damon crept quietly to the stone hearth on the opposite end of the room, he tried not to think about the kinds of sick Stefan had been, years past. Half awake himself, Damon eventually found the iron poker in the dark and stoked the fire, rolling an ashen log to the side as he reached for a new set of logs. The fresh wood was rough against his hands as Damon propped the logs up within the hearth. And slowly but surely, the fire took to the new wood as shyly as a society girl to her first dance, rising almost hesitantly under his close scrutiny.

But he waited. Damon was patient with fire in a way he seldom was with anything else… save perhaps Stefan.

Looking over his shoulder at the bed where his little brother lay, he watched Stefan sleep. Where he had previously been curled around his blankets in a fitful sleep, Damon watched until the fire, rekindled, leeched the cold from the air and Stefan relaxed. Stepping closer, Damon found himself hovering over Stefan’s bed, looking down at that irritatingly small face that had just yesterday, wished a pox upon Damon’s mother. Someone had been reading him Shakespeare again.

Damon had been quick to remind him that _his_ mother was also _Stefan’s_ mother—a distinction which had been something of a traumatic revelation to his pea-brain brother. As it stood, he watched the little troll sleep, noticing not for the first time that Stefan's thick head of hair was so much lighter than his own. And suddenly Damon was overcome with the simultaneous urge to kiss him…and to smoosh his snub nose so far into his face that Stefan could never again give him that little lordly look down his nose he _so_ loved to direct at his older brother.

His hand twitched with the impulse to do _just_ that, when Damon finally remembered just why he’d come down this hall. Unable to resist pulling a face down at his utterly oblivious and unconscious brother as he left, Damon went as quickly as he’d come, creeping into Bonnie’s room with a stealthy silence that he was incredibly proud of.

Only...Bonnie wasn’t in her room.

When he’d closed the door with nary a click of the latch bolt, and twisted round to shake Bonnie awake—she was nowhere to be found. Her bed, usually rumpled with sleep, was neatly made. Her pillow fluffed. Untouched.

The stone hearth was dead and ashen, the logs within fresh and unburnt. Unlit.

And for one terrible second his heart froze, eyes wide yet unseeing as he looked at the empty bed.

For one terrible moment, all Damon could think was—

 _No birds are singing_.

It was winter and no birds sang because they had flown south to warmer shores and brighter climes.

His lungs burned with the need for air before  Damon gave in and _breathed and—_

All at once Damon remembered that of _course_ _!_ Bonnie was staying in his mother’s suite, that she was _fine_ , that she was still here and of course she hadn’t disappeared in the night, because that was damned ridiculous and oh _thank_ the Holy Father because _merda,_ way to almost faint like a corseted woman _Christ_ —

Damon squeezed his eyes shut and breathed in deep, supporting himself on his knees as he bent over, breathing like that one terrifying second had winded him like a whole four hours with Mr. Thorne on the field. Ignoring the stinging of his eyes or the barest trace of dampness on his lashes, Damon, opened his blue eyes and stared at the wooden floor, feeling faint.

 _Bonnie was still here._ The dark little bird that had flown in with the warmth of summer and, against all reason or hope, stayed for the winter.

Tugging his lip between his teeth, Damon bit down hard.

Yet if Damon was certain of anything it was that all of Virginia’s birds had gone, flown south.

And sooner or later, contrary little bird though she was, Bonnie too would fly south—fly home.

Gritting his teeth, Damon shot the empty bed of Bonnie’s room one last look of contempt, and fled.

 

* * *

 

The wind blew through him as he hurried towards town, his arms tucked against his body in a valiant attempt to keep the winter from seeping into his coat. With every crunch of the snow beneath him, Damon tucked his chin deeper into the depths of his scarf, closing his eyes to the blanket of snow that covered Mystic Falls like a downy shawl. absolutely not thinking about how the trembling in his legs had nothing to do with how tired he was.

Sinking his face into the soft sable fur of his scarf, he breathed in the close, humid air between the hairs, and planted his chin on his chest so that he wouldn’t be tempted to look over his shoulder.

Squinting up into the ash grey sky, shot through with orange in the pre-dawn light, he adamantly did not think about why it felt like he was running away.

“No.” Damon whispered, watching his breath curl like smoke in the chill air, “Not a coward.”

If Damon turned his head now, he half expected to see Bonnie there, trudging through the snow beside him. She wouldn’t be tilting and slipping like him, no, she’d just walk like she always did—steady and effortlessly well-balanced. Like a shadow, never as clumsy as the one from which it was cast.

And just like one, Bonnie followed him everywhere he went, quiet and dark, shy in strange lights but larger than life in others.

If she were here, her dark eyes would be on him, watching him like he was something she was still puzzling out. Like he was a newly tailored waistcoat and she was still stretching him out, getting used to his fit.

And that was it, wasn’t it? Damon gritted his teeth to stop the shiver starting to chatter his teeth.

Because while Bonnie hadn’t quite settled into the feel of their friendship, to his utter mortification, Damon _had._ Almost as soon as she’d extended it to him, he’d _thrown_ that particular jacket on and wore it out into town, every day of every week since the turn of summer. He played with that jacket on, he studied with it on, he laughed and joked with it—he even slept with it on. Like a second skin, Damon had becomes so utterly comfortable with his… _thing_ with Bonnie that he never stopped to think about what it would be like if she left. _When_ she left.

Because she surely would. Eyes burning, Damon’s stubbornly tucked his face further into his scarf and blamed the wind.

Stumbling up the cobbled stone steps of the nearest building, Damon pressed himself against the large wooden door and pushed. His feet slipped precariously on the icy steps beneath him, yet Damon only pushed harder, the skin of his bare hands as white as the snow blasted onto the door’s surface.

When the door finally gave, Damon hardly felt it, his fingers painfully numb and bloodless as he stepped inside and shut the door with a groaning thud. Before anything else, before his eyes even adjusted to the dim light of his surroundings, he was met with the sweetly spiced scent of stale incense, lingering in the air long after it had burned out. It stung his nostrils and warmed his lungs, even as the inside of his ears ached from coming inside from the cold too quickly.

Without his eyesight, Damon would know where he stood.

Fell’s Church.

He blinked up at the stained glass windows and stone walls, never more aware of how small he was than when he stood under its towering arches and _still_ felt like the air was too close around him. Fell’s Church was much older than the anything in Mystic Falls, and it was evident in the Old World architecture—Byzantine and solemn in the way all of the white wood siding and shingle roof chapels weren’t.

The wind blew against the church, audible even through the stone walls, yet Fell’s Church stood silent and firm. It comforted Damon, somehow, and he stepped further into the church, aware that he was dripping a puddle but uncaring of it.

Lashes wet and hair damp from the snow, Damon walked past the dark pool of water where he was baptized and his soul saved, past the wooden pews lined row after row, numbering fourteen. As he stepped past each row, Damon ran his fingers over the varnished, wood carvings of the pews—each depicting one image of the _Via Dolorosa_ , the Stations of the Cross. Every Sunday, Damon would come here with his family and his mother would touch each with careful reverence. Damon always noticed his mother’s eyes would shine with tears on the second _dolorosa_ , Jesus Carries His Cross.

Today he didn’t spare his usual thought as to why.

“Please.” Damon whispered, not sure what he was begging for. The rising sun filtered dim light through stained glass into the cavernous church, illuminating the flecks of dust in red and silver, like floating embers flickering in and out of focus.

His mother always told him that if he was ever afraid that God was the one to talk to. His Creator would listen to his fears and soothe them better than she ever could.Looking up at his Lord and Savior hanging on the crucifix behind the altar, blood in his lashes and on his cheeks, Damon wondered what a dead man knew about fear.

And Damon was afraid. Of what, he still wasn’t sure. Yet he _hated_ it all the same.

Damon was never afraid. Not really, until this morning. He’d never felt empty either, like a hollow stomach. Or panicked like a hundred of his own hands were choking all air and reason from around his throat.

And now he stood in Fell’s Church, feeling all three.

Here he was, asking the Lord to grant him something he wasn’t even sure was possible. Not if He was the one taking Bonnie through space and time in the first place. Which actually begged the question of—

 _“Why?”_ Damon demanded, echoing in the large expanse of Fell’s Church. In the dark corners of the atrium, Damon’s disembodied voice returned to him, angrier than he thought he sounded.

“Why give her to me if you’re just going to take her away?”

Because why would _anyone_ send him a friend who wouldn’t even be born until long after he died?  Would they be friends who met at cross roads, and never again?

Somewhere toward the back of the church, a door opened, though Damon was deaf to it in his haze of frustration.

“Is someone there?” a man’s voice asked, sleep-rough and aged, cutting through the church’s silence like lightning through cloud.

Startled, Damon froze because for one horrified second, his little-boy’s imagination honestly believed that dead Jesus Christ on the wall was talking to him. Gaze flying to the large, bloody crucifix, it took Damon a second too long to realize that the statue had _not_ talked to him before someone rounded the corner.

Father Fell.

The boy stood there, eyes wide, like he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t and his guilt transfixed him. He watched the old man squint, his threadbare night shirt sleep-wrinkled, the candlestick in his hand pushed forward to illuminate the dim space before him.

“Damon, dear boy?” The old priest asked, his recognition and confusion apparent in his lined face.

“Yes, Father.” He answered automatically, stiff.

The tension in the old priest’s shoulders bled away as he regarded Damon, like he had been expecting something far worse. The cautiousness of his expression changed to curiosity.

“What…what are you doing here at this strange hour?” he asked, stepping closer, fixing a discerning look at the Salvatore eldest, “You’re not trying to find the sacramental wine stash again, are you?”

That teased a smirk from Damon.

“No.” he said impishly, “Not this time.”

Father Fell sighed laboriously, “Honestly, Damon, I don’t know why you try.”

All at once, Damon watched as the old priest made his way towards him, choosing the nearest pew and sinking slowly into his seat, groaning quietly.

“You know,” the priest continued in conspiratorial tones, throwing Damon a side glance, “This sacramental wine is nothing compared to the things your father brings home. Now _that’s_ the good stuff.” he hummed.

Damon watched his priest with something like incredulity, chalking up his casual banter up to sleep deprivation.

“My father doesn’t let me touch any of it." Damon muttered, sulking _, "_ He keeps it locked up in the cellar, or his study.” 

Father Fell chuckled, wagging a finger, “And for good reason, dear boy. Drink can lead a man to vices that stain the soul irrevocably. The sacramental wine we keep here has been prepared specifically to be transubstantiated into the Blood of Christ for Mass.”

He leaned forward and gave Damon a strange look, “Do you honestly want to be drinking what will become the blood of our Lord?”

Damon gave him an unreadable look, tilting his chin up in that defiant way he often did in the middle of Sunday sermons. There was trouble in that look.

“Maybe I do.” He said, stubborn.

Father Fell sighed a long-suffering sigh and ran a tired hand down his face, settling on taming his thick white beard because the boy beside him was refused to be.

“Damon Salvatore,” his priest said tiredly, eyes closed, “Are you going to tell me why you are really here?”

He opened his mouth to reply before Father Fell held a hand up, eyes still closed, “And if you lie to me, here in the house of God, I will nail your thumbs there.” Father Fell warned sleepily, dead pan. Damon eyes followed his lazy pointing, gaze landing on the altar and the crucifix behind it that rightly _terrified_ every child in Mystic Falls.

Damon’s eyes snapped back to Father Fell with a glare as he shut his mouth. The candle the priest held in his lap flickered quietly, the hot wax dripping downwards.

Looking down at his sodden boots, Damon shifted his weight uneasily.

“I came because I need help.”

Damon met the priest’s grey eyes when they opened to regard him with genuine interest.

“With what, dear boy?”

Damon was quiet for a while as the old priest waited with unending patience.

“I need…Him…to stop something for me. I want to know why, but,” Damon swallowed, looking anywhere in the Church but at Father Fell, “I’m afraid. And I don’t know why I’m afraid—and _merda_ I can’t explain it.”

Damon could feel the priest’s eyes studying him as Damon looked to the stone floor, his cheeks burning with an embarrassment he _hated_. The ensuing quiet stretched so long that Damon had to look up and make sure the priest hadn’t somehow fallen asleep again or finally _died_ , only to find Father Fell slowly standing as he made his way to the central aisle.

Damon watched him warily, his blue eyes narrow as Father Fell looked down at him.

“Come with me, Damon.” He said, motioning the boy to follow as the priest walked towards the altar. On both sides of the large, marble table stood two statues at the foot of the steps that led upwards to the ceremonial table. Turning left, Father Fell finally stopped at the feet of a white statue, clothed in gentle drapes that sparkled in the amber light of a nearby stained-glass window. At her feet was a large, filigree metal stand filled with rows and rows of votive candles, each nested within red glass.

Damon had always hated them, the incessant flickering of them during Mass—each candle like a blood red eye that darted this way and that, nervous in the way they were never still. Like a hundred eyed God that never stopped watching. Or perhaps a demon. Whatever it reminded him of, it never failed to put Damon on edge.

Nevertheless, Damon followed Father Fell and stood beside him, expectant.

The old priest plucked an unlit candle, holding the red glass gingerly before he offered it to Damon.

“Light one, Damon.”

Damon shot a bewildered look up at the old priest, but did as he was told. Straightening the bent white wick of the candle, the waxy feel of it odd between his fingertips, Damon picked up a thin wooden reed, just as he’d seen his mother do countless times before, and lit it upon the oil lamp provided, the used, black tip of the reed falling away to ash.

Carefully, he lighted his own candle and crushed the lit reed’s head at the bottom of an empty votive holder, extinguishing the flame. Complete in his task, Damon stood with his lit candle, awkward.

“Do you know where the word _votive_ comes from, dear boy?” The priest asked him, his voice gravelly and warm.

Damon bit his lip, his brows drawing together, “Not particularly, no.”

“It comes from the Latin word _votivus_ , meaning _vow_.” Father Fell explained, looking down at Damon kindly, “Each of these candles lit is a vow. A vow between you and God—that He will listen. That you will raise only the truth to him. Whether you can put your fears into words matters not, for God can see what lies in your heart.”

The line between Damon’s thick brows deepened, his blue eyes flicking up at the statue of Mary, Mother of God, her face patient and loving—even if cold, encased in stone.

“Why her?” He asked, swallowing.

“Well what do we do when our fathers do not seem to listen?” Father Fell asked lightly, settling a hand on Damon’s shoulder, “We ask our mothers to put in a good word.”

That brought a tentative smile to Damon’s face, thinking of the countless times he’d got around the rule of his father simply because he whined and sat pliable on the warmth of his mother’s lap, who would pull his father aside, say a quiet word or two into his ear, and work miracles.

“Sit here. Open your heart to her, and God will see.” Father Fell encouraged quietly, his rough baritone earnest.

Damon gripped the chipped, red candle votive in both hands, uncharacteristically obedient as he sank into the front pew, looking up into the stone face of the heavenly mother. Damon's uncertainty still roiled in his gut, his impotent anger still laid beneath his skin. Yet somehow, under the light of a hundred eyes and the gaze of a stone mother, it was...better.

Father Fell stayed only a moment longer before he turned, his voice betraying just how tired he was, “Take as much time as you need, dear boy.”

Damon nodded absently.

“And if I find my sacramental wine raided,” the priest added as he wandered off, “You know where you can find your thumbs.”

Damon listened to his footsteps until he could hear them no more, disappearing back into the depths of Fell’s Church as softly as they’d come.

He sat there, staring into the hypnotic flame of his candle, watching the fire flicker with every breathe he took, the white wax weeping silently into the base of the red glass—warmed by both the candle and the tight grip Damon held it with.

He thought of his fear, of Bonnie, and the strange forces that had brought her to him, thinking of the emptiness of his future days when Bonnie would inevitably leave for good…and not just to his mother’s rooms.

He thought about the unfairness of it all, how Bonnie would just go back to her magical time with her best friends, and probably forget all about him while he remained here…alone. Something railed in his chest when he thought of that.

For in indeterminate amount of time, Damon sat on that front pew, ignoring the way the sun moved across the sky as hours passed, the beams of light passing through the stained windows lengthening and shortening with the progression of the day. Had he been aware, he might’ve laughed as the stiff figures of Saint Peter, Saint Michael and the nameless shepherds inched their way across the Church floor like worms, but as it was, Damon sat—eyes dry—staring into his candle.

It took him a while to realize someone had spoken his name.

Turning his head with a start, Damon was greeted with the sight of Colin Forbes and Radley Fell, clothed in their white altar-boy robes, their expressions mirror images of confusion. It occurred to Damon they’d probably called his name more than once.

“Sorry, what?” he said, his voice dry, blinking at the curls of Colin’s dishwater blonde hair.

“I said your mother is a cankerous wart and you were a stain upon the Salvatore line.” Colin snickered.

The Forbes boy received simultaneous shoves from both Damon and Radley.

“Shove off, Colin, that’s not what you said!” Radley’s voice echoed in the great expanse of the Church, his voice deeper than any of the boys present. It was completely at odds with the boy’s small stature and his mousy brown hair—yet it seemed that Radley’s growth into manhood was going to precede all of them, despite that his body had yet to catch up to his cracking voice.

Damon glared half-heartedly at Colin, though his peculiar brand of jesting was something like a routine now.

The blonde boy held up his hands, “Come on, now, don’t tell me Radley’s uncle has finally put the fear of God in you.” Colin said, nodding towards the back of the Church and looking pointedly at votive candle in his hand.

Damon self-consciously set it down onto the pew beside him.

“It makes my mother happy.” He mumbled as an excuse, standing so that he stood in a strange circle of three boys.

Colin elbowed him good naturedly, “Is this where you’ve been hiding? Radley and I haven’t seen you all summer and autumn. We’d have taken up the altar-boy positions sooner if we knew we’d find you here.”

Damon thought of summer days spent fencing with Bonnie and autumn evenings spent kicking each other under the table, her name on the tip of his tongue before he remembered with a jolt that Bonnie was a subject that wasn’t widely discussed outside of the Salvatore estate, for good reason. The thought of admitting his friendship with Bonnie to Colin and Radley sent a weight to the bottom of his stomach. He didn’t think too hard about why.

Instead, he shrugged uneasily,  “I haven’t been hiding. I’ve just been studying a lot harder lately. Can’t do that if I’m digging around for frozen frogs with you two.” He said, affecting his usual snide smile in the hopes that it would mask what he was hiding.

It worked. They boys shared knowing glances, the sight of each others dimples familiar and safe as they chuckled together. Yet somehow, it didn’t sit right with Damon, and he tried not to think about how Bonnie would have picked up on his unusual mood instantly.

“Gonna be a college boy, Salvatore?”

“I sure as hell won’t be a sheriff or a priest.” Damon shot back coolly, looking at Colin and Radley pointedly, “Salvatore business across seas needs someone to run it.”

Radley’s face scrunched up, “Oi, we Fells are going into medicine these days. _That_ takes schooling too.”

“Oh do shut up, no one asked you, Father Fell.” Colin said, shoving Radley as the shorter boy whined in protest.

The familiar banter between the childhood friends almost brought a smile to Damon’s face, before he remembered just why he’d come here.

 _Bonnie_.

It sobered him instantly, robbing him from the moment and replacing his pleasure with guilt.

Yet why should he feel guilty? Damon narrowed his eyes, looking down at the abandoned votive candle on the dark wood of the pew. He was allowed to have friends outside of Bonnie. And if she was going to leave him one day...why, one could almost call it justified.

Beside him, Radley and Colin continued to bicker, oblivious to Damon's darkening expression.

“You boil-brained blighter.” Radley said to Colin, whipping out something he’d been hiding in the many folds of his white, altar-robes, “I suppose that my nimble surgeon fingers aren’t good enough for you then." He huffed indignantly, shooting a sly look towards Damon, " So I suppose I’m only going to share this with Salvatore, here.”

Damon’s eyes bugged when he looked at what Radley had brandished from within his robe. A wicked smile split his face as she stepped forward.

“You dared?” He laughed, forgetting his previous woes as he wrestled the large jug of sacramental wine from Radley, his crows of triumph devilish in its sheer satisfaction, “When did you swipe this, you scoundrel?”

Even Colin looked impressed as they looked at the date upon the wine jug. Radley just looked smug.

“I took the key from my uncle as he slept. I always knew that he kept the wine in his own closet.”

Damon pulled on the cork until it popped open with a satisfying, hollow, plucking sound, “What a _lush._ That old priest probably does Mass and drinks for the rest of the day. Maybe _I_ should become a priest.”

Colin’s splutter of disbelief was loud as he dumped the candles from three nearby votive candles and blew in them to scatter the dust, improvising glasses for them all, “But think of the _girls_ , Damon.”

The votive glasses clinked brightly as he set them on the pew and Damon poured out the wine, a deep burgundy color that inexplicably reminded Damon of his morning conversation with Father Fell. Something lodged itself in his throat, something like guilt and the thought of blood. Damon swallowed it away.

“You’re right.” He said, proud that his voice betrayed none of the emotion he was feeling, lifting his red glass of wine with the other boys, “I could never deprive the fairer sex of this handsome face. You should be the priest, Colin.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Radley mumbled as he greedily sipped from his makeshift glass, each boy following suit even as Colin scowled unhappily.

“Mother says I’ll grow into my nose one day, you know.” He grumbled, making a face at the alcohol after-taste.

They all did as they swallowed the bitter wine, the hint of sweet grape nothing but a tingle on their lips as they finished their glasses, eyes shifty over the rims as they regarded one another for a reaction to mirror. It was familiar, normal even, to see his friends do that. Yet even as his empty stomach sloshed with old wine, and then another glass, Damon couldn't help but feel like the past few months with Bonnie had changed the way he looked at things.

Somehow, the sight of Colin and Radley, putting on airs like they were afraid what would happen if they didn't, made Damon sick to his stomach.

He very deliberately blamed it on the wine.

“Good God, Radley.” Damon groaned as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, “Did you ask Father Fell for the dustiest wine he could spare?”

Radley Fell had the grace to look embarrassed, “Well if you don’t like it, I can get another one.”

Colin flapped a hand at them both, grimacing, “No you won’t. Put it back before your uncle wakes up and then it’s the switch for all of our backsides.”

Boisterous laughter filled the large expanse of the Church as they all congratulated themselves on the idea of their cleverness, stomachs full and heads a little too light.

Perhaps Damon should have known it then, by the unease in his chest and the wrongness in his bones.

Perhaps if he’d been paying attention, his stomach not empty save for several mouthfuls of illicit wine and his eyes not weighed down by the need for sleep, Damon would have seen it coming.

But as was wont to happen to Damon whenever Bonnie was involved—what happened next completely blindsided the boy.

Damon blinked as he swallowed, trying to clear his mouth of the strange taste of wine, of sacred blood, when something about the statue of Mary caught his eye. She stood as stock still as she had in the morning, yet as Damon blinked again, he wondered if it was just him or if the stone face of the Virgin looked faintly more ominous than before. Narrowing his eyes, Damon was soon distracted by the sudden flickering from the sea of candles below the statue’s feet, though there was no draft. No wind. No breathe.

Damon was instantly on edge—and that was all the warning he had before the sudden sound of wood heaving came from the Church’s front.

All three of the boys jerked their gazes towards the doors, thrown open as the frozen wind blew in from outside, snow and ice whipping its way into the cavernous atrium like a storm. Damon threw his arms up, shielding his face from the frigid cold. Reacting on instinct, he closed his eyes to the sudden brightness of the sun, reflected upon snow.

_“Damon?”_

His breath caught in his throat as he opened his eyes, ignoring the cold as none other than Bonnie stood in the open door, her blue winter coat so stark against the white of the snow she could have been a sapphire on a bed of ice. Around her neck, Damon recognized the snow fox scarf that his mother favored in winter, plush and luxurious on a lady—yet on Bonnie, Damon had to blink to be sure it wasn’t a scarf of snow against the dark of her skin.

And she looked furious as the storm outside, her hair whipping about her face from the gale.

 _“Damon?”_ She repeated, disbelieving, before she turned and shut the church doors which groaned from the ungentle handling.

He felt panic grip his throat as he looked at Colin and Radley, who exchanged nervous glances and stared at him for an explanation. He wasn’t given a chance.

Before he knew what was going on, Bonnie was already there, her chest heaving under her coat as if she had run the length of the Mystic Falls thrice over, her green eyes bright with the exertion of it.

“God, where have you _been_ Damon?” She gasped, gripping his shoulders almost painfully tight. Damon stood stock still, Bonnie’s sudden appearance enough to stun him speechless.

“You’re mother has been looking all over town for you! We woke and found you gone from your bed, your coat and boots gone, and we feared the worst. Lily is beside herself with worry!”

And quieter, Bonnie looked almost hurt, "Why didn't you wake me?"

Never before had Damon hesitated to shove Bonnie awake, eager to embark on whatever bright idea or fancy had taken him for the morning. It had been _their_ thing, every morning. As sure as the rising sun. And Damon had abandoned it.

He felt helpless in his guilt, thinking of his mother searching for him, thinking of Bonnie. Yet Damon said nothing, not knowing how to soothe that line between Bonnie’s worried brow. Except that was a lie. He knew how to do it, how he'd smooth it away with his thumb as he often did when she was upset with him, yet now—

His blue eyes darted past Bonnie’s shoulder and looked at Colin Forbes and Radley Fell, who regarded him with growing alarm and—Damon swallowed— _disgust._

Stepping back from Bonnie’s hold on his shoulders, Damon felt the panic in him rise as he met Bonnie’s silent confusion with answering silence, torn.

Colin seemed to take that as sign enough.

“Is she one of yours?” he asked Damon, looking more than a bit insulted on his behalf, “Don’t you teach them any respect?”

Damon watched as the Forbes boy looked Bonnie from head to toe, derision in his blue-green eyes.

“If one of mine dared to touch me, they’d lose their hands.”

Bonnie’s head snapped to face Colin, as if she’d only just registered that there were others within the Church, a banked fire in her verdant eyes.

“Excuse me?”

Danger frizzled in the air between them. It was only the very real threat of something _bad_ happening that snapped Damon out of his impotent standstill.

Quickly, he stepped up so that he stood between Bonnie and Colin, his hand outstretched, eyes wide.

“Hey! Hey, calm down!” he hissed, turning to throw Colin a look, “Colin, she isn’t what you think she—”

Bonnie side stepped him, her expression darkening, “Just _what_ do you think I am?” she snapped, unflinchingly meeting the taller boy’s gaze.

As if Damon didn’t exist, Colin stepped back to lean around him, regarding Bonnie with the same expression Damon had seen Colin's father, Mr. Forbes, look at his slave stock. It was an ugly mirror, and dread fell like an iron hammer in his stomach.

“You want to know what you are, nigger?” Colin spat, like he’d love nothing more than to educate Bonnie, in that cruel way children did. Bonnie reacted like she’d been slapped.

He widened his stance, the white of his altar-robes swaying heavily around his fine boots, the expensive clothes peeking out from beneath his clergy uniform a testament to the wealth of the Forbes family, and he puffed his chest like such things were proof that he was simply _better_ than his lowers.

“You are the spawn of animals, no better than the cows that I see bred, milked, and slaughtered so that me and mine eat happily, every night." He said cruelly, "You slaves work so well under the whip because you were born for that express purpose: as the footstool of our great nation.” Colin declared boldly, as if the truths spoken were common knowledge, “But if I had it my way, we’d suffer no more by your presence, your dirty—”

Damon had no warning as he watched Bonnie’s fist fly straight into Colin’s mouth.

With a painful crack, Colin’s head snapped back from the force of Bonnie’s blow, both their bodies shuddering from the impact—her dark hair, newly cut, flying wildly from the strength of her momentum forward. Colin crumpled to the ground with an indelicate crash, knocking over the votive candle stand below the statue of Mary’s feet.

Damon watched in horror as red glass shattered upon the stone ground, like the blood pouring from Colin’s nose , down his chin. Like the sound of a hundred chimes, the glass crashed, tinkling like the roar of distant crowd around them, chaotic and unchained as Bonnie’s fury.

“You fucking **bastard**!” she seethed, her eyes bright with unshed tears as she shook from the anger in her bones.

Colin sobbed as Radley ran to him, more terrified than angry. Damon watched as his pale hands ran over his friend’s prone body in blind panic, hyperventilating from the adrenaline, as Radley Fell grit his teeth and turned his eyes on Bonnie.

“You black devil!” he accused, voice scratchy, “Get out! Your kind isn’t allowed in fucking churches for a reason, and it’s because of _this!_   You're heathens!"

“Go to Hell!” Bonnie hissed, hurling the nearest thing at him and lunging for them both. By the skin of his teeth, Damon caught her by the elbow, wrapping his arms around her front and holding her back with all his strength. Damon grunted. It was like holding back a storm, his own heart hammering in his chest as he felt every muscle in his body strain to keep her from launching herself at them and doing more harm.

“No! Bonnie, you _can’t!”_ he cried, realizing as soon as the words left his mouth that it was the absolute worst thing he could have said. His chest to her back, even with the thick of their coats separating them, Damon felt her tremble with her contained fury.

In an instant, Bonnie elbowed him in the gut and he released her, gasping for breath as he fell backwards artlessly, the pain stunning him.

“Are you telling me what I can and can’t do, Damon?” she asked in a low voice, her voice a cracked mess.

Looking up at Bonnie, she turned to look over her shoulder at him with such raw pain, indignation and—Damon flinched— _betrayal_ , it hurt him more than any blow she’d ever dealt him, to know that he'd done _this_. Lying on his back in a scattering of broken glass, Damon lifted his face and was momentarily transfixed.

Behind her, the light of a brilliantly stained window shone down and painted Bonnie in strange lights. Color high on her cheeks, a fever brightness in her gaze, she looked like an avenging angel, fearsome to behold and and more fearsome to anger.

Good God, had her eyes always been so green?

If Damon closed his eyes, he could almost imagine instead that they were lying in the snow behind the house, the tip of her fencing foil pressed into his neck as she demanded he yield, winning her first victory against Damon—as she probably would have done, had he _just stayed home_.

Holding his injured side, Damon looked up at her like he was seeing her for the first time, regretting everything. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, _shit,_ he hadn’t meant for _any of this—_

“You think you’re all better than me?” She spat, her eyes firm on Colin, Radley, and Damon alike. Bonnie’s voice echoed under the church arches above them, a yawning expanse of stone and stained glass that was far older than any of them.

“You _aren’t.”_ Bonnie assured, baring her teeth, her fists clenched.

Holding his nose, Colin’s voice was still sharp as a whip even as he lay on the ground, bleeding, “You’ll _hang_ for this.” He promised darkly.

Bonnie breathed raggedly where she stood, above the boys below her, closing her eyes with such resignation, for a moment, he thought it might be over.

"Is that right?" she answered, emptily.

There was a second, a shadow of a moment  as Damon watched Bonnie, a drop of blood falling from her nose as she opened her mouth, preternaturally calm.

“Then I hope you know that a war is coming.” she said, a strange promise in her voice.

The blood in Damon's veins froze hearing words before he realized what she was going to do. No, _no, no she couldn’t be—_

_“Bonnie no!”_

Opening her green eyes, Damon saw her gaze harden as she looked down at all of them.

“In the coming year, 1861,” Bonnie choked out, gritting her teeth through the pain Damon had seen only once before in the library, when she was violating some unspoken rule of her time travel. Damon panicked he watched more blood ooze from her nose.

"America," Bonnie continued, her teeth stained pink with blood as she smiled, "Will split in half fighting a war for our _nigger_ freedom.” She declared bitterly, down to the Forbes boy.

Colin's face drained of color.

Damon struggled to his knees, hand outstretched as he scrambled to her, “Bonnie stop! You’ll hurt yourself!”

Pressing a hand over the blood now dripping from her nose and her left eye, an alarming shade of red, the resolve in Bonnie’s eyes never wavered. Around her neck, the white fur of her scarf was stained with an angry slash of red.

“And you Confederate bitches are gonna _lose.”_

That promise was the last thing she said before Damon stumbled forward, grasping nothing but empty air where Bonnie had stood only a moment before—her coat, her clothes, dropping to the Church floor.

She was gone.

Blinking rapidly, Damon felt his knees give out beneath him.

 _“Bonnie.”_ He breathed, “Bonnie, no, no, no, _no—”_

Uncaring of the shards of red class cutting his palms and knees, Damon scrambled to the coat she’d left behind, grasping it’s formless wool desperately.

“Come back, _no Bonnie_ , I swear I…” he plead, voice cracking, not caring that Colin and Radley would witness everything—not anymore, hating himself for ever putting that fear over Bonnie.

Digging through her clothes, his eyes stinging with ugly tears brimming on his dark lashes, Damon choked back a sob, crushing the white pelt of his mother’s scarf in a suffocating grip, his knuckles white and bloodless.

She was gone.

And it was all Damon could do to fall, burying his face into what was left of Bonnie Bennett—blood, softness and fury—and weep.

 

* * *

 

The official story was that Damon had gotten into a fight with the Forbes and Fell boy.

That they had gotten a bit too deep within the stolen jug of sacramental wine, and it had descended into chaos and destruction.

Lily knew better.

She’d known better the moment Damon had come to her, Bonnie’s coat and the scarf Lily had let her borrow tucked almost too tightly against his side, his eyes dark and full of regret. It was like what happened at Fell's Church had hollowed him of everything but a nebulous guilt that he shouldered with a worrying silence.

What transpired in Fell’s Church, Lily would probably never be sure.

A short visit she took with the Forbes and Fell boys had been less informative that she’d liked. Yet as she'd departed, even with the subtle threat she delivered to ensure their silence on the subject of Bonnie, it was clear that what had transpired in the church had terrified them more than any kind of threat Lily could deliver. That, and the fact that Damon had promised the both of them he would beat them black and blue if he ever saw their faces again.

Still, it saddened Lily that Bonnie had departed so suddenly and traumatically. And it pained her to see her son mourn the girl's absence.

Giuseppe had learned of Damon’s delinquency and wanted swift punishment, not only for the shame brought to their household but the embarrassment he growled he’d have to endure in front of Mr. Forbes and Mr. Fell, from now onward.

It was something even Lily’s charms and soothing words could not save Damon from.

So that night, Giuseppe summoned Damon to the study and locked the door, as Lily held Stefan to her chest in the parlor and stared out the window.

Neither her husband or her son emerged from that room until four hours later.

That night, Lily found him sleeping under Bonnie’s bed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Italian Translations:
> 
>  ** _Managgia_** \- equivalent of the expletive "damn", expressive of frustration as well
> 
>  ** _Merda_** \- equivalent to "shit"
> 
> Hello again! So sorry about the long-ish wait. I felt so bad about not being able to update, I made this chapter twice as long. I'll admit that I struggled with it a bit, some things feeling off to me, but I think I've got it where I'm happy now. 
> 
> This chapter was about a lot of things for me. I wanted to continue Lily's growth as a character, and give perhaps a little more insight into the kind of life she lives. With Bonnie, I think there was a unique situation I _had_ to capitalize on where Bonnie gives voice to a lot of things that Lily, for reasons like societal expectations, has never allowed herself to think of, before. It's my hope that perhaps, Lily's future abandonment of Damon and Stefan, as we know it, is a bit more understandable, in this context.
> 
> I also wanted to explore the fact that children fuck up a lot, in big ways. Damon isn't perfect, he's perceptive, but he's still a child of his time. As progressive as the Salvatore family is, Mystic Falls can't be a comfortable little town free of the racist overtones and slave practices of Virginia—especially when the Civil War features so heavily in TVD canon. I hope that the conflict in Fell's Church was a reasonable balance of realism and drama, and a tragic look at Damon's character, where his (somewhat selfish) fears of Bonnie leaving him end up causing her departure, in a way. It's an ego-centric view of Bonnie which Damon takes that, while totally forgivable for his age, is also something he's going to have to grow out of if Bonnie's going to tolerate his ass.
> 
> The song Bonnie references is "La Vie En Rose" sung originally by Edith Piaf in 1947. I apologize in advance for using the title unironically and ironically.
> 
> Once again, thanks for reading! I appreciate all comments and kudos :)


	8. Interlude: Ripples (I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonnie's departure has left ripples in Mystic Falls and Lily sends Thorne on a mission to unravel the mystery behind it all. In New Orleans, Thorne meets a familiar face he had hoped to avoid.

 

 

 

It happened on a muddy, grim day.

A terrible day for a birthday, if Thorne was honest, but it was a day worth celebrating, he supposed. In a distant part of the Salvatore Manor, the sound of screeching children and bubbling laughter echoed through the halls, loud enough that Thorne was inclined to tilt his head and listen to the veritable army of them, playing their birthday games. Somewhere in the house, someone was plunking away a cheery tune upon a tired piano.

Closing his eyes, his hands clasped behind his back, Thorne found the corner of his mouth tilting upwards.

His father would have called them a barbarian horde, rowdy and full of the kind of youthful vigor one needed if one was going to expel an empire from one’s lands. His father—a man with an angular face and sad eyes—would have loved these children.

Brown eyes opened, slowly, and Thorne turned his thoughts away from that particular subject with the ease of one who had lived with that particular wound for a long time, and knew better than to lean too heavy upon it. He stood there at the end large corridor, a polite distance away from the closed doors of Mr. Giuseppe’s study—patient as he waited for Miss Lily to finish with her husband.

Minutes passed before Thorne found himself frowning at something particularly scathing said behind the doors.

Thorne was no eavesdropper. To clarify, listening in on any married couple’s conversation would have been unspeakably rude to him. Yet both Miss and Mister Salvatore had called for him. He could neither leave to afford them their privacy nor ignore his summons in any other way.

Yet neither Miss Salvatore nor her husband seemed particularly keen on keeping their voices down.

Looking down and away from the ornately carved doors, Thorne pushed a blonde strand of hair back, smoothing it down where it had escaped its bindings. His attention was so purposefully fixed on a dark spot upon the fine Persian rug below that he missed the silent approach from his left.

“I am five today.”

Surprised, Thorne turned to where he’d heard the young voice address him—finding his quarry right beside him, and a great deal shorter.

Stefan stood at a height that reached mid-thigh to Thorne, his brown hair rebelling from the severe part on the right side of his head—undoubtedly once combed to perfection and also, undoubtedly, his father’s idea. Large, green eyes looked up at him expectantly, his fat little hand shoved upwards, all five fingers displaying his proud age.

“That you are, Master Stefan.” Thorne agreed with an amused smile, his eyes searching the corridor behind him and finding no accompanying nurse. He idly wondered if the boy was making the rounds of the house, telling everyone who would listen that today he was five years old.

“I am five.” Stefan repeated in that particular way that made him sound like the cleverest little boy, “Which means that I am also a man.”

Thorne fought his grin and lost, his smile true as he crouched to the boy’s level.

“A man indeed.” He said lightly, eyebrows lifting, “All that wisdom must be difficult to shoulder on your own.”

Stefan nodded solemnly in agreement, his cherubic face reminding Thorne of the little, half-naked angels the people of this era liked to carve onto pillars and fountains.

“Is this why you are wandering the halls alone, burdened by this wisdom on your name day?”

The boy blinked, his brown lashes lighter than his brother’s, “Yes.”

The blonde man tilted his head forward and nodded, an air of conspiracy to the slant of his lips.

“Then it would be my honor, Master Stefan, if you would unburden your wisdom upon me.” He said in low tones, watching as Stefan’s face lit up with the thought of a listening ear who esteemed him as more than a little boy.

Stefan shuffled closer, the small shoes on his feet shined to mirror-like finish.

“My brother doesn’t think I notice, but I do.” Stefan whispered, looking put out, “He thinks because I’m younger than him, that I’ve forgotten. He said he would tell me when I was man.”

Thorne leaned an elbow upon his bent knee and stroked the hair on his jawline, considering the boy’s words with every prick of his stubble upon his thumb.

“I haven’t forgotten.” Stefan assured Thorne enthusiastically, “And I know that Damon is entertaining the attentions of Vivian Casey because he thinks that if he hides behind her all day, he won’t have to tell me.”

“And just what has your brother promised to tell you?” Thorne questioned, reaching out to brush away stray crumbs from the maroon suit-vest Stefan wore, richly embroidered the way his trousers were not—though they shared the same color and same make.

“Of Bonnie Bennett.” The boy said, as if it was obvious.

Thorne’s hands stilled where it was fixing the pleated stock around Stefan’s neck.

_Of course._

Of course Stefan would want to know of the girl who had so thoroughly ruined Damon for any other partner in the fencing arena. The girl who had singlehandedly pulled Damon out of his own arse with nary a lift of her brow.

The girl who still occupied so much space in the Salvatore Estate, even when her name was all that was left of her.

Thorne’s gaze was carefully blank as he looked down at Stefan.

“What do you already know, Master Stefan?”

The boy was quick to look down at his shoes, as if what knowledge he did have was obtained illicitly, through unofficial means. So it was. It seemed little Stefan was a boy of many talents.

“I’ve been told me that she helped me walk.” He admitted quietly, “Though I do not remember.”

Thorne remembered. Clear as the day it happened—the uproar of ecstatic joy that effused the Salvatore Estate with high spirits because of it, a good humor that lasted for weeks. All the while, the little girl who had helped it happen hid in the darker corners of the house like a stowaway.

Little Stefan stepped past him and pressed himself to the large window that looked over the endless acres of hills and forest owned by House Salvatore. Small nose squished against the window, uncaring of its chill, Stefan peered down into the yard.

“That was Bonnie’s, wasn’t it.” He said, not truly a question, his voice wondering and a little muffled.

Thorne followed the little boy’s gaze down to makeshift scarecrow Damon had planted there, a pole marking the mid-point between the training grounds and the gardens surrounding the estate. Hanging on its wooden frame was Bonnie’s blue coat, carefully buttoned and its boots tightly fastened. On a hollowed, brown gourd that served as its head, sat the hat Bonnie had worn during the winter she disappeared.

It was the most fashionable scarecrow in all of Mystic Falls, handsomely dressed and well regarded for all that it was just an amalgamation of sticks and a gourd.

“Yes it was.” Thorne confirmed, stepping up behind the boy, both their gazes fixed upon the little blue scarecrow, “Though in her defense, the vegetable used for her head does not do her justice.”

Stefan peeled himself away from the window, looking up, “You knew her?”

“Oh, I more than knew her.” Thorne chuckled almost fondly down at Stefan, whose cheeks were pink from the cold of the window, “I taught her.”

“Is it true that she defeated Damon in single combat?” the boy asked excitedly, looking like he’d discovered a veritable treasure trove of information. To be used, of course, for ammunition against an elder brother.

The expression on Thorne’s face was full of exaggerated consideration as he lifted his eyes to the ceiling, remembering.

“Well, Bonnie _did_ best Damon when it came to shooting.” He admitted to Stefan, recalling how firmly Bonnie had learned to hold the pistol, how well-aimed her shots became: single-minded and true to their target, “Had she challenged to Damon in a duel of honor, I do not doubt Bonnie would have emerged the winner.”

Stefan bobbed up and down where he stood, his entire bottom lip sucked in between his teeth as he gnawed on it in rapt attention.

“But?” the boy prodded impatiently.

“But Bonnie had yet to beat your brother in the combat of fencing, I’m afraid.” Thorne informed, to the disappointment of the little boy, “Had she more time, I do not doubt she would have defeated your brother eventually.”

Thinking back, Thorne remembered the last few days he’d worked with the girl, before the unfortunate incident in Fell’s Church befell her. Her form had been vastly improving, as well as her speed and fluidity of movement. Where Damon still had the advantage of strength and erratic technique, Bonnie was a steady burning flame of precision and possessed a certain…awareness that Damon lacked.

Damon, who’s many weaknesses boiled down to his tunnel-vision approach to combat, his singular obsession with his opponents—not necessarily with defeating them.

Stefan looked so crestfallen to know that Damon yet undefeated and looked to remain so for the time being, that Thorne felt obliged to add, “I have yet to teach Damon boxing, however.”

The little boy looked at him with a quizzical gaze, wondering just what this had to do with anything.

“And I heard that Bonnie executed a perfect strike on her opponent the day she left—and knocked Damon flat on his bottom.”

Stefan snorted and wheezed in disbelief as he clapped his hands in glorious triumph, his face scrunched up in such comical amazement that Thorne was tempted to laugh.

As he waited for Stefan to calm down, to cease his fits of giggling and exclamations to God, the sound of his joy echoing off the stern oil paintings on the walls, Thorne placed a gentle hand on the boy’s head.

“But what is the mark of a wise man?” he questioned Stefan quietly.

The boy stilled, puzzling over the question even though Thorne knew quite well that the answer was beyond him.

“Knowledge alone does not make a man wise, Stefan. It is the use of that knowledge that marks a wise man from a fool. And the knowledge I have shared with you must be used wisely.”

Stefan nodded solemnly blinking down past the corridor’s edge, no doubt thinking of his brother.

“You may be a man now, Stefan, and ready for many things. But I fear Damon is not yet ready to speak of Bonnie. The question remains: will you wait for your brother?”

The little boy looked thoroughly inconvenienced, his expression warring between what _he_ knew he wanted and what he knew he ought to do. It was a fretful few seconds for the boy, but Thorne waited.

Stefan’s little mouth twisted downwards and up as he openly stared at Thorne, “I love my brother.” He said, prefacing his next statement with a heavy sigh, “So I will wait for him.”

Thorne lifted his eyebrow and gave the boy a slight smile, “And I am certain your brother will be grateful.”

“He,” Stefan mumbled mournfully, wiping a hand under his nose and idly scratching an itch there, “He says Bonnie’s never coming back.”

The man blinked down at Stefan, giving the boy one last pat on the head before he stepped back, hearing both Miss Lily and Mister Giuseppe on the other side of the door, a hand upon the knob.

“She may yet.” He replied to Stefan, cryptic.

The doors of Mister Giuseppe’s study slid open and apart, the sound of wood and metal on rubber wheels guiding the doors over a fine, metal track, echoing in the air. Miss Lily stood in the doorway, her arms extended as she pushed the doors to open the study to their fullest width.

“Stefan?” She asked, surprised, looking down at her son who stared up at her, startled, “What are you doing here, darling?”

The rustling of her satin skirts against their many layers was gentle as she bent forwards and scooped the little boy up into her arms, resting his weight upon her hip.

Thorne watched Lily press a short kiss to Stefan’s cheek. She was dressed in matching burgundy to her son, her handsome tiered dress magnificent in its richness and make, ruffles minimum and pleating elegant. Around her cinched waist was a cream colored sash of silk from the Orient, which complimented the etched ivory of her earrings.

The little boy giggled with delight and playfully wiped away the lipstick on his face, “ _Mother.”_ He admonished in his boyish manner, “The girls won’t kiss me happy birthday if they think I’m already married!”

Lily laughed as Stefan picked up his mother’s loose braid of shiny, dark curls, “I’m sorry, my little darling. Far be it from my wish to see you age into an old man, unkissed.” She teased.

Turning her head, she met Thorne’s eye. There was a moment where the affection in her gaze gave way to a seriousness that spoke of business they needed to attend to, but the moment passed, and Lily was back to doting on her son.

A figure filled the open doorway, shadowy and large.

“Mr. Thorne.” Giuseppe greeted seriously, his deep voice stiff and unpleasant as he stepped out into the corridor, briefly turning his attention to his wife and child, before his gaze returned to him.

“Mr. Salvatore.” Thorne returned, bowing his head slightly.

“I hear from my wife that she has…business for you, up North.” Giuseppe said coolly, making it known that this was a decision he did not approve of. He was a tall and thin man, the sharp features on his face lightly lined with age and an almost constant expression of wariness, the light brown of his hair combed back.

Thorne did not hesitate to throw a polite smile back, affecting demureness as he cast his eyes downward, “If Miss Lily has business that I am to involve myself, I’m afraid this is news to me.”

He watched as Giuseppe took his unspoken act of deferment at face value, the older man standing straighter, secure enough in Thorne’s respect to let his gaze wander away.

From the corner of his eye Thorne watched him like a hawk, thinking to himself how predictable men of power often were.

“She means to send you to New York and gather information for us.” Giuseppe sighed, looking up to a grand painting of some distant ancestor upon the wall, before he turned his head to Thorne and motioned him into the study.

The Salvatore patriarch stepped in first and Thorne followed at a distance before he turned and closed the sliding doors. Through the space of both doors, Thorne shared a look with Lily before the doors shut with a light click.

The study was a grand room, done in a similar fashion to the library, only instead of just simply books lining the walls in a leather-bound myriad of dyed colors, weapons of every kind also adorned the red walls. Be it old or new, sword or flintlock, each had its place along the walls—some even contained in glass cases of fine make.

Thorne made a quick catalogue of what had changed and what had been added to Giuseppe’s arsenal since he last came here. Satisfied that nothing the man had recently collected was among the limited number of objects capable of killing him, Thorne smiled, lips closed, and gestured for Giuseppe to continue.

“My wife believes the whispers of every one she hears.” The man derided quietly, rounding to stand behind the desk that dominated the east wall, “She insists that we send you north to learn more.”

Thorne did not like the way he spoke of Miss Lily, but showed nothing but polite interest.

“There _has_ been talk about a strange creature in the woods, Mr. Salvatore.” Thorne reminded him.

“ _Talk_.” Giuseppe scoffed, his hard brown eyes dismissive, “The native Indians _always_ talk, mostly to scare us away.”

Hands clasped behind his back, Thorne’s brow furrowed, “Forgive me, but need I remind you that before your people took these lands, it belonged to _them?”_ He said, an edge creeping into his voice.

Giuseppe looked up at his tone, eyeing him with barely concealed indignation. The man did nothing, however, his eyes flicking from Thorne’s shoulders, to his boots, and back up again.

“My family has been here for generations, Mr. Thorne.” He rebutted, a warning in his tone, “I think we know enough of these lands to defend our kind without the unwanted input of Indians.”

Thorne stepped forward, his gaze meeting Giuseppe’s , unyielding.

“Only an arrogant man would assume to know what he needs before the need even arises.” He replied evenly, blinking slowly, “And you do not know everything, Giuseppe.”

The older man straightened, his eyes narrow, “So familiar, Mr. Thorne. You forget that we are not equals.”

Thorne smiled, “That we are not.” He said plainly, his meaning purposefully ambiguous, “You and Miss Lily gave me employment in a time where I dearly needed it. For that I will always be grateful.”

The blonde man was close enough to Giuseppe’s cherry wood desk that he could place his open hand on its varnished surface, his fingers slender and long, “But one look before is better than two behind. And it is better to dig your bait while the tide is out. ”

Thorne’s eyes never left Giuseppe as the other man looked down and away with a weary sigh, the silence heavy with his thoughts. A blonde strand of Thorne’s hair, fallen forward, swayed with the push and pull of his every breath.

With a wry smile, the line of Giuseppe Salvatore’s shoulders sank, looking up through his lashes to Thorne.

“Two British proverbs, Pierre?” he joked quietly, a silent apology in the tired lines around the man’s eyes, “What kind of Frenchman are you?”

Acknowledging it for the victory it was, Thorne stepped back and tilted his head with a casual ease as he shrugged, the both of them adopting the relaxed manner of men who have reached an accord.

“The kind that has seen borders redrawn too many times to care much over them any longer.” Thorne offered vaguely, “And the proverbs are Gaelic, not British.”

As Giuseppe walked back over to the closed doors of his study, Thorn saw the intrest pique in the older man’s expression as he glanced at him like might a puzzle. Hands resting upon the golden handles of the door, Giuseppe paused and looked over his shoulder.

“Will I ever know what it is you are?” He asked so quietly, it could have been a question to himself.

Thorne’s expression was not unkind as he bowed slightly, as much a farewell as a polite deflection of the question.

“Know only that it is not important.” Thorne answered, “And that your family is safe in my hands.”

Resigned to the fact that it was all he was going to get at the moment, Giuseppe nodded curtly and opened the doors, revealing Lily standing there, still holding Stefan as they idly talked about nonsense.

“I do not doubt it, Mr. Thorne. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Giuseppe said over his shoulder, sharing a look with Lily as she lifted Stefan from her hip and offered him to his father, “I have a birthday party I must attend to. See that you return to us as soon as possible.”

And with that, Giuseppe left. Thorne watched as Stefan waved to him from his father’s arms, carrying him back down the hallway, his perfunctory questions to his son so very different from the way his mother talked to him. Eventually, their voices became distant and indistinguishable from the noise coming from the birthday party—leaving Lily and Thorne alone.

The silence was neither comfortable nor uncomfortable as they stared down the empty hallway. Thorne was the first to look away and back to Miss Lily, whose face was carefully blank of whatever thoughts the image of her husband walking away from her conjured.

“Miss Lily.” He said politely.

“Mr. Thorne.” She returned with a tired smile, walking into her husband’s study to join him. As was their routine, if there was a task the Salvatore’s had need of Thorne’s…expertise to manage, Giuseppe would inform his wife of the specifics to be relayed in a prompt debriefing he was often absent for, his business keeping him away.

“I assume my husband has told you what I intend?”

Thorne nodded, “Yes, of course.”

“Good.” She said, closing the doors of the study. All at once her expression changed, the put upon smile dropping away, replaced by a singular expression of calm, a sharp intelligence glinting in her eyes. As if the closing of the doors had severed her outer self from her inner, Thorne had the distinct impression that he was standing before a more genuine, truer Lily.

“There have been rumors of a creature wandering the forests of Mystic Falls—already two are dead because of it.” She informed him.

Thorne twitched, “What are the signs?”

Lily looked faintly ill as she no doubt thought of the victims, the true nature of their deaths known to only an elite few.

“They were eaten—Wesley Conan and…and his son, Johann.” She said, her brows knitted, “He was just a boy of eight. And whatever butchered him consumed as much of his father and him as it could.”

“How far?”

“Nineteen miles from here.” Lily replied, visibly repressing a shudder, “Wesley’s head was found on the border of Mystic Falls. His son’s scalp and torso were found near Fell Church.”

Thorne’s eyes were alert as he shared a look with Lily, her ice-blue eyes at once fearful and determined.

“The creature is moving inland.” He realized.

Lily nodded, a stiff motion that sent her earrings swaying, “People have reported glimpses of the monster. They say it is inhumanely tall, and gaunt—yet walks like a man. Black like a shadow, it lumbers like the dead.” She described in a quiet voice, glancing outside a window into the tree line not far from their house, “I want you to kill it before it kills again.”

Thorne’s gaze was already washing over the surrounding walls, eyeing which weapons he might bring, “That I can do without going North for information.”

“No.” Lily was quick to say, shaking her head, expression adamant, “I want to know what it is before I send you. I want to know what we’re dealing with, if there might be more.”

 _If someone sent it_ , was left unsaid.

He found himself nodding with her line of thought, unable to argue with her reasoning, “Alright. But why North?”

Lily wandered over to the bookcase behind her husband’s desk, the hem of her burgundy dress whispering across the ornate, Persian rug on the floor. Her pale fingers swiped idly across the bookshelf, testing for dust by habit before she gripped the statuette on the far end of the bookcase, perhaps once made of copper but now tarnished green. Thorne’s eyes recognized the statuette to be the likeness of a knight in medieval armor, his arm outstretched to defend—sword in hand. With a hard twist, Lily stepped back and watched the tall bookcase slowly recede into the wall, where she pushed it to the side, revealing a hidden room.

As they had many times over, Lily stepped into the hidden annex and Thorne followed. With no windows to be found, the only source of light were a number of lanterns, already lit and illuminating the secret room with a warm, yellow light.

Lily had already taken her place beside a large table, a complicated map spread out upon it, yellowed with age.

“I’m sending you North because we have word that the a variety of Covens have made their home in New York. If anyone will know what we’re dealing with, it’ll be them.”

Thorne laughed, a short sound devoid of humor as he ran his finger along the inked lines of America’s shore, the paper rough and thick beneath his touch.

“You’re sending me to consort with witches?” he asked, more surprised than displeased, “Since when has House Salvatore supported anything but the burning of witches?”

Lily’s expression was hard as she fiddled with the lace hem of her cuffs, so fine it could have been spun from spider’s silk.

“What my husband does not know will not kill him.” She answered with the elegant arch of a dark brow, the fine angles of her face almost challenging him to question her, “You mistake his intolerance for mine, and I believe you’ll find that I am much more discerning with whom I choose to burn.”

Leaning his full weight upon his palms, flat upon the wooden table, Thorne’s brown gaze was nearly molten in the low candlelight.

“And who deserves to burn according to my lady?”

The woman seemed amused at his small slip into archaic language, if the slant of her lips was anything to go by. Yet the resolve in her own blue eyes never wavered.

“Anyone who threatens those that I love.”

Thorne watched Lily stand there, the light reflecting in strange ways upon the lustrous red satin her gown was made from, unashamed of her fierce love or the ruthlessness it inspired in all the ways women of this era were taught to be ashamed of. If Thorne looked at the woman _just_ so, the yellow light of many candles lighting the liquid black of her hair, Lily herself seemed to be made of fire.

Internally, Thorne smiled at the strength of her.

“Ah.” He said in low tones, “So there _is_ something else you would have me do.”

“Yes.” Lily admitted, her mouth twisting in a way that spoke of her discomfort in the ways she was not allowed, “This cannot reach the ear of my husband.”

The blonde man blinked, a silent agreement in itself.

“It involves Bonnie Bennett.” She added quietly, emphasizing her need for secrecy.

“He will not hear of it.” Thorne vowed, “On my honor.”

Exhaling quietly, Lily looked down at the large map of America, seemingly at odds with herself with what she was about to ask. Thorne let her have the time she needed to collect her words.

“I,” She started then hesitated, the uncertainty and worry in her voice, “I want to know if my Damon is in any danger, being tied to Bonnie the way he is.”

She lifted her gaze to him, beseeching, “I know Bonnie herself would never harm him. But dear to me as she is, the powers that send her to my son are still a mystery to us. Find out what you can about her—if there has been precedent for this kind of…unnatural linking.”

Thorne nodded silently, straitening his posture, his hands clasped behind his back again.

“I need to know if my son is safe.” She whispered, fierce and concerned.

“New York will not be the place for this.” Thorne said, “Perhaps the witch Covens there will help, but I have an idea of who could be of more useful in this regard.”

Lily looked wary, “Who?”

“The less you know the better.” Thorne said gently, “The supernatural of this world do not take kindly being known—especially by humans.”

Unsatisfied with this answer, Lily crossed her arms, “I don’t see why not.”

“You humans have a history of destroying that which you are uncomfortable with, even amongst your own people.” Thorne explained further, “Would you begrudge us of that, which ensures our safety?”

He watched as Lily’s hard expression softened, replaced by something like understanding and regret.

“You speak as if you stand apart of from us. Were you not once a human as well, Pierre?” she asked softly, her tone somewhat shamed.

He did not answer her right away, thinking back in the long line of his memory to a time when things, perhaps, were simpler. Silence descended in the space between them, Lily’s gaze upon him.

“A long time ago, perhaps.” He settled on saying, his lips thinning in thought.

Lily nodded, the gratitude she felt for his services and his honesty there in the clear blue of her eyes.

“Where will I send word then, if not New York?” She asked, forthright, knowing that even if Thorne did not owe her the name of his supernatural contacts, he _did_ owe her his new destination.

“New Orleans, Miss Lily.”

Lily’s laugh was short and wry, “Louisiana is mite bit farther away than New York, Mr. Thorne.” She pointed out lightly, rightfully concerned about their time constraints.

Though the hidden room they stood within had no windows, no clear view of the sky, Thorne did not need one to know what time of day it was, or where the sun stood. His small smile was as knowing as it was oddly empty.

“As the crow flies, presuming I avoid the usual trouble,” Thorne said evenly, his dark eyes glinting, “I should be there by dawn.”

He heard Lily’s exasperated sigh before he saw it. The apparent discomfort she shared with her husband about being kept in the dark about Thorne’s exact nature was only countered by how dryly amused she was with it all, as evidenced by the wry tilt of her smile.

“And I don’t suppose you’ll be needing a horse, then?”

Thorne’s smirk mirrored hers.

“No, thank you.”

 

* * *

 

New Orleans was a city that spoke.

From the mud of the streets to the bold reds, blues and pastels of the painted buildings, New Orleans spoke as loudly and as grandly as a _troubadour_ on his last penny. Brown eyes swept across the oil lanterns, charming in their design, hanging from metal posts as they flickered and flared in the wind, casting their light on people walking past.

And as Thorne turned his gaze upwards to the terraces and the balconies of the higher stories, admiring the strong iron balusters and the delicate curls and intricate Catalan metal working of the rails, he politely returned the regard of the gentry reclining there in the shade, sipping their gin and playing their card games with lace-gloved hands. Walking further into the city, Thorne recognized the latest fashions from France in the silhouettes of the women folk passing him by.

Slipping his fingers into the ribbon in his hair, Thorne pulled and stiffly shook his hair free from the kinks the tie no doubt left in his hair, his movements economical and practiced. Free, his blonde hair fell to an unfashionably long length, curling gently just above the breadth of his shoulders. Running a tanned hand across his scalp, his mussed hair and three days’ worth of stubble would hopefully be enough to ward off curious looks from those he did not want to attract.

Eyes watchful, Thorne made his way down a particular street, turning a corner only to be stopped short by a man standing in his way.

Breathing in his scent, Thorne took in the measure of the man and met his gaze evenly.

“Good morning.” He greeted neutrally. The man only nodded his head shallowly, dark hair falling into his eyes.

“The King wants to see you.” The man said in response, his tone leaving no room for question.

Thorne looked upwards and sighed under his breath. He had been hoping to avoid this.

“I’m afraid my sojourn to your city leaves little time for pleasantries. Send my apologies to your King.” He said stiffly, moving to walk around the dark man.

He was stopped by an arm, blocking his way. Thorne turned his head to look down at the man, displeased.

“I really must insist.” The man urged, the trace of a threat in his tone.

Thorne looked at him, a trace of irritation in his brown eyes. He smelled the alcohol in him, a whiff of thralldom in his aura, and Thorne tamped down on the urge to sigh again. If he so desired, he could fight him and win. After all, what powers did a human under a vampire’s compulsion have? He could kill the man right now, a hundred different ways and no one would be the wiser.

Or he could run.

Tilting his head to the side, Thorne eyed the man’s throat the way a swordsman might when deciding if he should split his enemy in half from the gut. After a time, Thorne pulled eyes back to the man’s face.

“Lead the way, then.” He assented, nodding curtly.

After all, there were worse fates in New Orleans than having a drink with a Mikaelson.

 

* * *

 

Stepping foot in the tavern was a little like stepping onto a battlefield.

The first thing that Thorne smelled was the scent of blood, overpowering and cloying. Gone was the fresh breeze from the sea, vaguely salty and coal-heavy, replaced by the iron-tang of human blood.

Stepping over the corpse of a woman upon the floor, Thorne ignored the deathly moans of the other victims, the heels of his boots clicking primly upon the wood of the floor. Up ahead, his eyes were fixed upon the man at the bar, who was leaning the length of his body upon the wooden surface of the counter, languid in his sated ease, swirling something red in a finely etched, crystal glass—too thick and opaque to be wine.

Wordlessly coming up beside the vampire, his dull blonde hair cut shorter than last he saw it, Thorne’s expression was politely blank. He watched as the King of New Orleans downed the last of the blood from his glass, throwing it back like it was fine aged liquor. Thorne eyed the thick film of red residue that stained the rim of the crystal glass with a vague distaste.

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice you in my city?” the vampire asked, his tone deceptively jolly as he turned his head to regard Thorne with a lopsided smile, balancing the now-empty glass precariously on two fingers. The vampire’s voice, accented so differently than the Americans, washed over him with a tide of ill-timed nostalgia.

Thorne sighed.

“I did not think I was worth any attention to be frank, Niklaus.”

The use of his full name caught the vampire’s attention and Thorne watched as Klaus angled his body to face him now, fully, standing straighter.

“So modest.” Niklaus said with a sarcastic widening of his eyes, caustic and teasing all at once.

Without warning, Klaus slammed the crystal glass onto the table with inhuman strength, his hand a blur. It shattered into a violent spray of broken glass, stained red and glinting sunlight, streaming through the windows.

Thorne stood unmoving amidst the rain of broken glass, eyeing Klaus with an empty smile on his lips.

The vampire leaned forward, easily stepping into his personal space like it was his right, reaching forward towards Thorne’s face. With a strange tenderness to his movements, absurd in light of his violence the moment before, Klaus pinched a shard of glass embedded in Thorne’s skin between the tips of his fingers and pulled it from his cheek, slow and purposeful. The back of his pale hand brushed past a lock of golden hair as he withdrew, the small shard stained red where it had punctured him. Blood oozed from the wound.

“So you _do_ bleed your own blood.” Klaus said with a satisfied grin, like that had answered a long sought after question. Thorne watched as the vampire brought the shard of glass under his nose like he might good wine, or perhaps a rose.

Tossing the offending piece of glass away, Klaus laughed, leaning his weight upon an elbow, planted upon the bar counter, “I had wondered, you know. You haven’t aged a day since last I saw you.”

“Last you saw me,” Thorne spoke slowly, “You were sending a pack of werewolves and witches to hunt me down for my hide, Niklaus.”

 _“Yes,_ I did, didn’t I? _”_ Klaus agreed, shaking a finger at Thorne like he’d just helped him remember a fond memory, “and you sent me back their corpses as a parting gift—burnt to crisp.”

Something cold reared its head in Thorne’s eyes and Klaus’ smile widened by a fraction. Thorne blinked and it receded, gone.

“If you think I haven’t aged a day, Niklaus, it’s because you’re not looking hard enough.” He offered, edging the conversation away from that particular night with little care for how transparent he was.

He watched as Klaus took his deflection in stride, tucking that little tidbit of information away for another time, his blue eyes alive with mischief despite the fact that he was very much undead. Thorne blinked as another drop of blood ran down his face from the puncture wound, slow and far too warm. The vampire tracked its movement with a careful eye.

“What are you doing in my city, Galeas?” Klaus asked, blue eyes still lingering on the drying trail of blood on his cheek, his voice sitting precariously on the edge of danger—the degree of it entirely dependent on the kind of answer he received.

“I am here for information, in specifics—a particular witch coven.” Thorne answered with an arched brow, “And I no longer go by that name.”

“Oh?” Klaus said, his head tilting with interest, “What do the humans call you now?”

His lips thinned as he considered lying to Klaus, and discarded the idea. There was little use in trying to lie to an Original.

“Thorne.” He answered, patience thinning, “Pierre Thorne.”

Klaus wrinkled his nose in distaste, “How very domesticated you are now.” He muttered, looking away towards a lineup of enthralled humans, sitting docile in the back, waiting to be bled dry.

“Do I have your permission to do my search within New Orleans?” Thorne asked him pointedly, his brown eyes never leaving the side of Klaus’ face.

“Which coven?” the vampire asked, affecting a casual indifference that Thorne saw right through. Niklaus always had an affinity for witches, be it for good or ill.

“The Gemini Coven, Niklaus. Do I have your leave?”

The vampire turned back, meeting his steady gaze with the cold blue of his own—eyes that belonged to a terrible man who had lived to be a terrible age. Old, yet still so young in so many ways.

“No.” Klaus said, petulant, looking up at Thorne from beneath his serious brow, “Not without something in return.”

Thorne briefly looked out a nearby window. Klaus did not miss it.

“And if you’re thinking of running out on me, dear Galeas,” Klaus added threateningly, “Know that I know where the Gemini Coven are temporarily boarding within my city—and I’ll butcher every last one of them before you can squeeze a drop of knowledge from them.”

Klaus stepped closer and sank into a bar chair, leaning back in a languorous sprawl. Thorne turned his gaze upon the fair-haired vampire, a banked fire in his eyes as he watched Niklaus drape his arm around the chair’s arm, his legs spread in a statement of casual dominance. Niklaus had always possessed the ability to imbue even the smallest of actions with sensual power. Even when he was being an arse, he did it with a conscious, dangerous charm.

Displeased, Thorne’s nose flared as he took in the familiar, heady scent of werewolf pheromones permeating the air around Klaus, territorial and dominating. Something dark unfurled behind his eyes.

“Do stop it. You smell dreadful.” Thorne said, voice dull, “I know very well that this is your city.” He said, unamused as he cast a dirty look at Niklaus.

“No, I don't think that you do.” Klaus said lightly as he spun around on his stool, the childish action at odds with his very adult body. Thorne tamped down on the urge to breathe through his mouth.

“If you’re going to cock your leg and piss over everything in the general vicinity, I’m leaving.” Thorne said testily. He had little patience for the power-plays of vampires and werewolves alike, God forbid that _both_ had been inherited by Niklaus, meaning twice the melodrama.

Klaus twisted round and spun to a stop, using his muddied boot to slow himself down. His smile was unbearably smug.

“No you won’t.”

“Niklau—”

“Five questions.” Klaus interrupted, wiggling five of his fingers in the air, cocking his head, “All I ask is you answer five of my questions, and you’ll be free and on your way.”

Watching Klaus lounge around in his spinning chair, holding up his five fingers, Thorne was abruptly reminded of little Stefan Salvatore who had turned five only two days ago. Stefan, who had so proudly presented all five of his fingers to Thorne, and who would remain in danger if the threat in Mystic Falls was not dealt with.

Questions were also dangerous, however. This, Thorne knew. Especially when one was giving a blank piece of parchment to ask them.

“Ask your questions, then.”

“Oh, you _are_ wonderful when you’re angry with me.”

The dimples in Niklaus’ cheeks were nowhere near as adorable as Stefan’s, and Thorne kept the little boy in mind as Klaus all but rubbed his hands together in gleeful satisfaction. Leaning forward in his seat, Klaus set his eyes on him, keen and glittering in the shadow of the tavern with something like hunger.

Klaus did not ask him to have a seat.

He knew better than that.

“Answer truthfully, dear Galeas.” Klaus said slowly, “Or I will take your heart from your chest and hold it within my hands, if I cannot trust the way it beats.”

“Of course.” Thorne said patiently, brushing his long hair back behind the shell of one ear.

Klaus grinned. It was terrifying.

“Where have you been for the past forty years?”

He blinked slowly, “I left the Americas and returned to Britain, visiting Italy. Then I returned for employment.”

“You’ve been busy.” The vampire said with a quirked brow. Thorne merely looked down at him and kept his mouth shut.

“Fine, fine.” Klaus said, flapping his hand, “Don’t elaborate.”

He only looked at Klaus with an expectant expression.

“Are you,” Klaus began, his pale finger tapping his chin idly in thought, “immortal?”

“No.” Thorne answered easily.

The intensity of Klaus’ gaze was unnerving as the lightness of his demeanor bled away into something far darker. It boded ill for Thorne, and his skin prickled under the danger of Klaus' attention.

“Did you intend to kill me,” Klaus whispered darkly, eyes narrowing a fraction, “Pretending to be human and growing close to Marcel and Rebekah?”

Thorne looked down at the blood and dust speckled floor, the light from the sun catching on his blonde lashes as he chose his words wisely.

“No.” Thorne answered honestly, his eyes flitting upwards to meet Klaus’ resentful stare, “I was only ever their fencing instructor. You were never supposed to be a part of the picture.”

He left out the part that pretending to be human had always been easier than the…alternative, and wondered whether the slip of emotion he’d seen behind Klaus’ stony expression had been hurt.

A muscle jumped in the tense line of Klaus’ jaw, “How did you kill the ones I sent after you? They were among the very best.”

Thorne made an effort to keep his breaths even as his mind returned to that terrible night, not too long ago.

“With fire.” He answered vaguely, eyes dry from his refusal to blink, “Last question, Niklaus.”

Klaus’ smile was ugly, fond and bitter all at once. The finger he’d rested upon his chin slid upwards to trace around his mouth, tapping on his full, bottom lip. His blue eyes were hooded as they trailed up Thorne’s figure with deliberate consideration.

“How do I kill you, dear Galeas?”

_Could I?_

The casual threat veiled within the question was not what bore down like a cold weight in his stomach, nor was it the fear of what Niklaus could do to him, should he wish it. One corner of Thorne’s mouth tugged upwards. It was the only sign of regret he could allow himself.

“You already have.” Thorne answered softly, cryptic.

He watched the frustration in Klaus’ expression bled into his blue eyes, the bizarre answers he’d received no doubt at odds with what his enhanced senses were telling him was the truth. Confusion and turmoil weighed on Klaus’ brow, knitting them together in an expression so strangely honest, Thorne wondered if Klaus knew just how young it made him look.

Looking away, Thorne took a step back, watching Klaus for any indication of violence. When none was forthcoming, he turned around, careful not to trip on the recent bodies of Klaus’ latest meals

“Did I say you could _leave?”_

The hiss from behind Thorne made him pause where he stood, his back to the vampire. It was as much a demand as a promise of pain if he was not obeyed. It was also a reminder of why Klaus had styled himself the King of New Orleans.

“You promised, Niklaus.” Thorne reminded him, calm, “Five questions and I would be free to go.”

There was a whisper of air behind Thorne before he sensed that Klaus was now standing behind him, looming. He could feel Klaus’ lust for blood weigh heavy in the air around them, even though Thorne was quite sure Niklaus had sated any and all hunger for it, as evidenced by the veritable pile of bodies around them.

Yet for all that vampires did not need to breathe, Niklaus seemed to enjoy breathing down people’s necks. Thorne’s fair hair trembled with every exhale of Klaus’ breath, where Thorne would not.

“What use are promises to a liar, Galeas?” Klaus challenged.

“I never lied.” Thorne countered, still not turning to face the vampire king, “You simply assumed I was your lesser, like you always do.”

In an instant, Thorne found the side of his face smashed into the bar counter, bent in half over it, the force of Klaus’ strike splintering the oak wood against the grain. Thorne felt the pain spear through his skull before he registered that he was being ground into the splintered wood by Klaus’ savage grip in his hair.

“You know _nothing_ about me, darling.” Klaus hissed in his ear, flecks of his spit wet against Thorne’s ear where he spoke.

Thorne blinked, feeling his scalp painfully protest Klaus’ brutal grip on a fistful of his hair.

“I know enough, Niklaus.” He breathed shallowly, knowing that a number of his ribs were broken, “I know the way you talk about your son, Marcel. I know the way you look at your sister when you think she cannot see. The way your face lights up when her fencing form improves.”

Swallowing and tasting his own blood, Thorne pressed on, “I know your family is your crown jewel—rare and only to be taken out of your pocket and admired on occasion,” Thorne’s laugh was low and wet with blood, “But on rare those occasions that you let yourself look into the brilliant facets of their faces, you see shades of yourself reflected. And you feel a little less alone.”

Niklaus’ silence behind him was as damning as any admission. He imagined that the vampire king could hear the loud beating of his heart, hammering in the cage of his chest, just as Thorne could hear the slow rhythm of Klaus’ own heart still—just for a moment.

“Fancy yourself a mind reader now, do you?” Klaus spat derisively, a transparent attempt to distract from his very visceral reaction to Thorne’s words.

“A heart reader.” Thorne corrected, and pushed back.

In the same amount of time that it had taken Klaus to pin him to the bar counter, Thorne flung Klaus off him, sending him stumbling back into a row of tables.

Straightening, Thorne felt the bones of his spine crack as he smoothed away the mess Klaus’ grip in his hair had caused, turning to face the vampire, who righted himself and was preparing for an attack when Thorne spoke.

“I would prefer if you didn’t touch me again, Niklaus. As I would prefer we part on better, less bloody terms than last.” He said truthfully as he blinked. Niklaus’ eyes widened a fraction where he stood, witnessing something he had not seen before.

The wounds on Thorne’s body glowed as they mended themselves, stitching together his broken ribs and his cracked face like seams of sunlight.

The light from within him flickered as it healed, as if someone had lit a fire within his body, before his flesh sealed the heat back in—good as new, without a scar.

Looking over at Niklaus, something golden flashed behind Thorne’s eyes before it receded back beneath the very human brown of his gaze. The vampire did not breathe.

“Do I have your leave to go?” Thorne asked for the final time, a steel edge underlying the smoothness of his voice that had not been there before. He watched as Niklaus regarded him with something like caution, the stance of his body defensive. Silence descended, punctuated only by the various sounds of business outside in the docks.

“You have my leave.” Klaus finally said, at length. The expression on the vampire’s face was unreadable, "The Gemini will be near the Bayou St. Jean." he added after a moment, his reasons for doing so unclear. Then again, Niklaus himself was a mystery.

Nodding, Thorne bowed shallowly in farewell, and turned. As leisurely as he’d come, he stepped towards the doorway, one of his boots already out the door when Niklaus’ voice reached him again, thick with things unsaid.

 _“Galeas.”_ He called from behind, voice rough, “Were we ever friends?”

Thorne paused in the doorway, his hand resting upon the wooden frame, painted white and peeling in the salty wind from the ocean. He did not mind that he owed the vampire king only five questions and was yet, being asked a sixth.

Call it weakness. Call it sentiment.

“No, Niklaus.” Thorne finally said after a beat, running his tongue over dry lips. He turned his head, just enough that it seemed he might turn around and address the vampire proper, but stopped when he thought better of it. When Thorne spoke, he was almost proud of how thoughtful he sounded—the spite beneath, only an afterthought.

“Friends don’t try to drink the other dry.”

And with that Thorne left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I'm quite amazed by the response I've received for this story! I reached another kudos milestone with your help, and I'd like to thank all of you for stopping by and making my day a little bit more satisfying :)
> 
> With the departure of Bonnie last chapter, I thought it a good time to establish a little of the world beyond the limited view of Bonnie and Damon. Yes, I've created a sort of 'East Coast Supernatural Defense Coalition', as I'm sure is at least sort of realistic, given the crazy supernatural shit that probably goes on. I mean, if the Founding Fathers could band 13 colonies together and organize a revolution against the British crown, I'm sure that Lily Salvatore, Mystic Falls, and other cities with supernatural troubles would share resources to fight it, right?
> 
> Besides, I love the idea that a select few families in cities are the only ones who _really_ know what's going on and defend against the supernatural, eventually passing that duty onto their children. Secret ongoing war? Hell yes! It would also make the turning of the Salvatore brothers _that_ much more terrible. Humans have the advantage of numbers (if not strength) and I hate they're often relegated to the role of victims in supernatural stories. Bitch, my homo sapiens ass is going to stake yours if its the last thing I do (even if its just a toothpick).
> 
> I have one more interlude chapter in the works before we return to Bonnie and Damon. I hope you enjoyed it! I love all your comments and kudos, and I invite you to ask questions if you have any :)
> 
> This is my imagining of Thorne, by the way (just blonde and dark-eyed): 


	9. Interlude: Children of Heol (II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorne seeks out the Gemini Coven for answers concerning the growing shadows in Mystic Falls, and uncovers answers that are far more personal than he imagined.

 

 

If he had cut the grass at his feet with a blade, dipped that handful into a vat of muddied brackish water, and crushed the fresh green in his fist, staining the lines of his palm with it as he brought the grass to his nose—Thorne imagined that would successfully encapsulate the scent of the Bayou.

That, and the word _green_.

His boots sank into the mud if he stood in one place too long, woolen socks sodden for how little Thorne cared for the state of his footwear. It was not every day, after all, that one was fortunate enough to see a cradle brimming with so much life, be it plant or reptile—bird or fish.

It was also not every day that one went out of ones’ way to purposefully find a coven of witches and warlocks who expressly did not wish to be found.

Yet here Thorne was. Niklaus’ directions, though vague, had been useful in getting him thus far. And now that Thorne was here, he could smell it.

Well, not actually.

It would be a disservice to Evaine Dulaac if he said he could smell anything of the Gemini through the cloaking spell she’d cast over their sanctuary, protecting them from unwanted attention and prying eyes. Yet there was no other way to describe it. Every spell had its own energy signature, a taste—a feel. The cloaking spell now surrounding the Gemini’s lodgings was seamless, perfect and invisible as the very best spells were.

But Thorne would have been drawn here either way, even blinded and crippled. He would know the threads of Evaine’s spell work anywhere.

Stepping across the threshold, Thorne felt the hexes and protective charms wash over his skin, heated and bordering on the threshold of pain, before he blinked—and the defenses of the Gemini subsided.

Stillness descended. The life surrounding, previously humming and green within the Bayou—fell silent within the perimeter. The frogs did not croak, the birds lay dead where they’d dropped from the reeds. Thorne’s eyes travelled from branch to the tall, wooden building, the ominous sound of mud-thick waters lapping around him like the graceless, heavy thudding of a tongue against teeth—about to speak words of ill-intent. Within the house, Thorne heard the sound of quiet weeping.

Some sinister spell work was at play.

The wood of the aged patio creaked under the weight of him as he waved it open, careful not to touch the knob. The door to the house opened silently, like an eye to a beast in mourning. Thorne stepped in without hesitation, casting his eyes about the house, dark, save for the spare lighting the holes in the roof allowed. Standing there, he met the gaze of a young woman who stared at him, eyes wide upon a tear streaked face.

Tremulous, she haphazardly wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

“No, no _, no…”_ she whispered, alarmed. “H-how did you get in?”

Holding his hand up, placating, Thorne was quick to explain.

“Be not afraid, madam. I am not here to harm you or your kin,” he assured, his voice open and earnest.

By the wooden stake that materialized in one hand, she did not believe him.

Springing to her feet, the young woman pushed her hand forward, a sending Thorne into the nearest wall. It was an impressive display of non-verbal magic that Thorne, unfortunately, had no time to admire, as he was preoccupied with preventing a wooden stake from entering his heart.

Hand catching the witch’s wrist, Thorn held her at bay, even as he was pinned to the wall.

“Be still, Gemini.” He breathed, half-aware of how often he was being thrown around, of late, “If I were a vampire, would I have entered into your housing without an invitation?”

Her brow was furrowed, grey eyes narrow, “You would not need an invitation if you are one of Klaus’ creatures,” she replied, the tremor in her voice bravely concealed. With strength aided by magic, she tried to stab him again, harder.

“I am not.” Thorne reassured, the hand around the witch’s wrist tightening to combat her strength, “Of this I give you my word.”

Thorne looked down at the young woman, her dark hair uncombed and disheveled even as her eyes, red with crying, shined with the determination of a witch coming into her power. For a moment, they stood in the foyer at an awkward impasse—Thorne, unwilling to do harm, and the woman, unwilling to trust him.

A voice came from deeper in the house, startling them both.

“Only fools and devils think their word is worth anything to witches.”

An old woman appeared at the doorway leading into a larger parlor, leaning her weight against the frame. She stood tall and unbowed, despite her advanced age—        her hair, once black, gathered at the nape her neck.

Thorne watched as the old woman’s lips curved into a smile which revealed nothing.

“But,” she continued, her voice gravelly and warm like the sound of water in an aged oak barrel, “this is a devil I know. Let him through, Brígid. And stand down, Bran.”

Thorne watched as the young woman, Brígid, backed away, looking over her shoulder to meet eyes with a young man who materialized from the shadows: a sword in one hand and a fistful of wolfs-bane in the other—Bran, as Evaine had addressed him.

 _Twins,_ Thorne realized.

They shared the same dark hair and wide, grey eyes. Tilting his head, Thorne met gazes with the brother. Young as he was, he had already mastered the Gemini cloaking spell, and the protectiveness in his eyes was startling, promising a dark many things if Thorne so much as laid a finger on his twin sister. He held Thorne’s gaze, not lowering his weapon until his sister had returned to his side on far end of the corridor. Brígid, only slightly shorter than her twin brother, fit herself into Bran’s side like it was specifically carved for her, his broader build like a shelter.

Reassured that there would be no more attempted stabbings, Thorne peeled himself from the wall and turned his eyes to the old witch at the end of the hall, a grateful smile on his lips.

“Evaine Dulaac,” he greeted, “my lady.”

“Galeas Cor Beneoit.” She returned with a knowing look, coughing raggedly as she disappeared back into the room behind her, a silent invitation to follow.

Thorne stepped after her, his footsteps light compared to the twins that trailed at his back, their eyes watchful of his every move. Passing under the doorway, Thorne was coldly greeted by a number of witches in the living room, a large fire lit within the stone hearth. As he trailed his eyes over the lot of them, women and men both hailing from lands across the seas, their skin dark and pale alike, Thorne idly wondered how the Gemini had come to collect such a diverse group of witches and warlocks.

But New Orleans was a port city. New blood was a hazard where slave ships made their sales.

Despite the tepid welcome, Thorne’s gaze soon found its way back to Evaine, by far the eldest member of the coven present, who was being helped into a large wooden bed by an oriental woman with dark skin and darker hair, the weight of worry across her brow. He watched as the witched eased Evaine into her place, her back propped by a sumptuous number of old feather pillows, pulling the quilted coverlet up over the old woman’s sagging bosom.

Inhaling, the scent of death in the air finally made sense.

“You are dying.” He stated, somehow surprised.

Many an unkind eye turned upon him.

Evaine’s answering laughter was like the grinding of rocks, hollow as the popping of a mud bubble along a swamp’s surface.

“That I am, Galeas,” she said, dark and old like a rotting log. “Yet last I heard you had been run down by that young upstart dog, Klaus.”

A line formed between his brows, “He is not young, Evaine, or to be underestimated.”

“Is that the air of a warning I hear?” she chuckled, “Klaus is younger that either of us, and that is all that matters.”

Thorne stepped closer so that he stood by the bedside. The witches present seemed to tense together, afraid he meant their coven leader harm. Thorne ignored them, turning his attention to the old woman—who he had known to be a great beauty in her time—now bent and wilting with the ebb and flow of time. The dark wood of the house around him seemed to swallow any sunlight that came through the window, casting deeper shadows in the lines of her face. From where he stood, Evaine looked carved from wood, the whorls under her eyes like the bark of a tree.

Despite it all, Evaine looked frail under the blankets and pillows, her body shriveled and her wrists thin. Skin hung from her bones like silk from the white arms of a Lady of old.

“Will you return to us, again?” he asked quietly, kneeling as he came to her bedside.

Unbidden an image came back to him: Evaine as a little girl, barefoot and running around the clear lake with her dark hair streaming behind her—grabbing at the knees of her mother who was always so silent. Evaine’s skin had been so white it was nearly translucent, even if she had so enjoyed smearing it with berry juice and mud.

“No,” The old woman answered with an arch of her sparse brow, bringing Thorne back from the memory, “my body is failing and I am the last. There will be no coming back from this one.”

Thorne took the news like he would a blow, the dark of his eyes heavy with an old, nameless weight.

“I had thought,” Thorne said haltingly, uncertain, “With your mother’s blood and the gifts bestowed upon you by H—”

“That I would be what? Immortal?” Evaine interrupted harshly, her clouded eyes hard. “Despite how long I have lived, I am still a witch, Galeas—mortal as my mother before me.”

Thorne swallowed.

“But you did not come here to watch me die,” she said easily, an undimmed intelligence glittering in her pale eyes. “So what favor does Galeas ask of Evaine?”

Averting his eyes to the window, Thorne pushed aside the tangle of things in his mind and recalled what it was he had come here for.

“There is a creature,” he began, throat dry as he fixated his gaze upon a knot of wood on the old bedframe Evaine laid upon, “stalking the woods of Mystic Falls.”

The old woman snorted inelegantly, “When is there ever not?”

Thorne politely ignored the apparent humor she found in the situation.

“I cannot name it. It hunts the humans living there, old and young alike. Consuming their flesh like a starved beast,” he told her, recalling what Lily had said. “From the glimpses seen of it, they say it is a dark and tall creature, gaunt.”

Evaine closed her eyes, the thin line of her lips turned downwards as she contemplated his words.

“Flesh eater. Rot reeker,” she muttered, lifting her half-lidded eyes to the far wall, raising three gnarled fingers from the threadbare quilt.

Thorne watched as book slid from its place amongst the others, its aged leather stained by time and tea as it glided over from its perch to Evaine’s waiting hands. It opened itself like a blooming flower to the sun upon her lap, pages fluttering lightly as they turned.

There on thick parchment pages, a dark inky drawing of a beast caught his eye—misshapen and starved, its maw a slash of obscene red, like an open wound.

Thorne’s fist closed.

“Hard winters in the North, of late?” asked Evaine, turning her head to look up at him. Thorne had still not taken his eyes from the book’s page.

“Not in Virginia,” Thorne said slowly, thinking back on idle talk he’d overheard, “but farther north, yes. I heard the poor harvest and the long winter left many starved. Dead.”

“Then you have your answer.”

Thorne heard the witches and warlocks around him shift on their feet, uncomfortable. Casting his eyes around the room, upon their shadowed faces, Thorne was unnerved by the shared sense of knowing among them, their murmurs to each other.

The girl from before, Brígid, stepped closer from her place under the doorway, her twin brother still looming near her.

“…What is it?” She asked quietly, her brow furrowed. Though she stood apart from the other Gemini as a younger witch, the earnestness of her curiosity was clear in her expression—and was beyond the reproach of other, more senior members.

Evaine turned where she sat, a grim smile on her face.

“A _witiko,_ dear girl, or wendigo,” The old woman answered, turning back to the book and tracing a bony finger around the outline of the beast’s hollow eyes, “They were men once, before the hunger set in—before the desperation of starvation drove them to eat the flesh of their own fellows.”

Brígid drew back in horror, her eyes widening with the untold brutality of Evaine’s words. Silent, her brother Bran came up behind her, gripping her shoulder in wordless comfort. Yet even Bran seemed uneasy, overly pale. Thorne watched the girl reach back to touch his hand as well.

Evaine continued, “There is power in the flesh of a man. Or didn’t you know?” her smile took on an edge that did not sit right with Thorne. “If a vampire can take magic from the blood of the common man, so too does his flesh hold value. But it is lesser, and nothing is so corruptible as the flesh of man.”

Thorne took half a step back, the air of the house growing stiff and heavy with some unnamed magic. His throat felt dry.

“The power of hunger, of thirst,” Evaine went on, her voice somehow different than before, “Is a desire that has magic of its own. For the _witiko_ , it is enough to transform a dying man into a monster with a taste for the flesh of men, forevermore—not to sustain no, but to fill the desperate void of what once made it human.”

The barest hint of Brígid’s teeth flashed in something like barely concealed disgust as she pressed closer to her brother behind her. Yet the light in her eyes had turned from fear to something…else.

“There is…magic in desire?” She asked haltingly, her gaze intent upon the old woman on the bed.

“There is magic in everything that has life, girl. Common and uncommon alike.” Evaine sneered, watching the girl and her brother with a knowing sharpness, “In the deepest parts of ourselves, we _feel_. In that feeling, be it hunger, desire, or two hearts twain—there is a potential to make something of it—creation itself. It is the wellspring which stems from Nature and is yet apart from it.”

The old witch tilted her head, as if pondering her next words. Something unwell glittered in Evaine’s eyes.

“And it is infinitely more powerful for it, pure human willpower made manifest.”

From where Thorne stood, he could see Brígid’s hands trembling. Her fists clenched to hide it.

“You speak of _Expression._ ” The girl whispered, fierce.

“I do.” The old woman answered with a smile, “But I know your mind… and not even such dark magic can save you, dear girl, from the duty you must face.”

A silence descended that was as thick with dread as it was heavy—laden with too many things unsaid. Too many things left undone. But Thorne could guess what nameless fear haunted the girl.

After all, the Gemini coven held only _one_ fate for the twins born to them.

“I _cannot_.” Brígid begged to the older witch, her eyes shining with unshed tears, “You cannot ask this of me. Of us.” She said in a rush, out of breath, gripping Bran’s hand tighter, “He is my brother—the half which makes me whole.”

“I _can_ ask it of you and I will.” The old woman replied, her voice harsh and unforgiving, “Or would you ask the entire coven to die with me for your selfishness? Your perverse love?”

Brígid flinched back as if struck. Thorne’s gaze shifted back and forth at the girl and her brother, when he was suddenly struck by another memory.

A brother and sister too: standing by a clear enchanted lake in the moonlight, under flowering trees. One of them too much—the other too little, making promises they could never keep. Not truly.

Not on a battlefield. Not in war.

Stepping back, Thorne reached for the bedpost to steady himself, knowing and unable to control his racing heart. As he scanned the coven, none in the room seemed to notice his lost composure—none save for the old woman upon the bed. Evaine’s gaze was knowing, if only fleeting, as she turned her attention back to the twin siblings.

“We aren’t…we don’t—” The girl started.

“Do not make the mistake of taking me for a fool, dear girl.” Evaine interrupted darkly, “I have eyes. And they see much more than you do—have seen much more than you will ever know, and I see a doom within your eyes, Brígid.”

Evaine’s mouth thinned into a troubled line even as her eyes seemed distant, “The doom of my mother.” She whispered, “I put this off for you, too long, dear girl.”

Thorne couldn’t bring himself to look up from the ground and see so clearly the reminder of… his greatest failure. He blinked, gritting his teeth even as he felt the eyes of Evaine upon him. Looking up from between loose strands of his hair, he met her gaze—eyes that seemed on the precipice of a dangerous idea.

“But perhaps Galeas can help you.”

Confusion knit his brows together, “I beg your pardon?” Thorne asked. Glancing between Evaine and the twins, Thorne found it hard to ignore the spark of hope in Brígid and Bran’s faces.

“You can?” Bran asked, his voice surprisingly deep, speaking for the first time. Both twins stepped closer to him.

Before Thorne could disabuse them of their outlandish notions, Evaine’s voice broke through like a scrape of nails across uncured wood.

“Once upon a time, Galeas, you searched for a way to spare your king from death, but arrived with your prize too late.”

Evaine’s eyes were wide, almost manic, as she stared him down. Thorne looked away, ignoring the sudden scrutiny of the whole coven. His knuckles were white where he gripped the bedpost.

“You search for him still, do you not?”

Thorne bit his tongue, gazing sharply at the old woman from the corner of his eye. It was not a kind look, and Thorne said nothing.

“Answer me, Galeas.” The old woman demanded, an unbending steel to her voice.

“Yes.” Thorne breathed, like a confession that had been pulled from him.

Evaine chuckled from where she sat, a bitter and mocking sound as she ran a finger across a loose seam upon her worn quilt.

“Did you ever think, perhaps, that the King you seek…may in fact be a Queen?”

A shadow fell over his expression, “What riddles do you speak, woman?”

“I speak,” she replied sharply, “of your own blindness, Galeas. What was once, will be again, but not in the same form as he took before. Nature has a way of choosing that which we least expect, cup-bearer.”

Thorne flinched at the old title, concealing it too late to hide it from Evaine Dulaac. Her triumphant smile, too many teeth and devoid of mirth, was terrible to behold.

“For is that not why you have come to me?” She asked, sly and in low tones, “You seek the signs.”

Trailing a finger down the page of the book still in her lap, Evaine gazed upon the hideous wendigo stalking its prey. For a moment the drawing on the page, with all its black sagging skin, reminded Thorne of the old woman on the bed.

“Wendigos hunger for flesh, but more so they stalk the trails of magic, for such meat is far sweeter. Such a beast would not cover great distances unless it smelled great power on the wind from afar. So tell me, Galeas, has there been something in Mystic Falls that might have called to the wendigo, or someone?”

Thorne swallowed, a blue coat flashing in his mind’s eye. He thought of falling leaves, golden and crimson, and the green eyes of a little girl—out of time.

“Perhaps.” He answered, looking closely at Evaine, “A child has come, bound to one of my charges.”

“Oh?” The old woman said, arching her hairless brow. Thorne looked out the window, staring at the sun, uncertain.

“She knows things she should not, behaves as no other child of this time should. I suspect there is more to her than meets the eye.”

Thorne turned from the window, eyes flitting from the wary audience of the twins to the other witches.

“Already, I have seen the favor she holds with Nature,” he admitted, his unease with the uncertainty evident in his voice. Looking to Evaine, he recognized with some surprise that all amusement had left the old woman’s expression, replaced by something far darker.

Almost threatened.

“Does she come from another time?”

Thorne closed his eyes. He’d heard Mr. Callum tell that she came from somewhere in the second millennium, centuries into the future.

“Yes.” He answered, levelly.

“Time bends for no one.” She said, after a time, “Save for the children of _Heol_ …”

“…Beloved of the sun.” Thorne muttered under his breath, finishing Evaine’s sentence.

The old woman sat in silence as she raised her hand and opened it before her face, her eyes tracing the lines of her palm like they would reveal to her the answers to her questions. Her skin stretched like cobwebs on branches in the wind, spotted and impossibly thin. For the first time in all the time he’d known her, Evaine looked to be troubled.

“Why does she come to your charge? Does the boy have magic?”

Thorne frowned lightly, thinking of Damon. Taking after his mother in all but his sex, Damon was dark haired and fiery tempered—always a mischievous glint in his pale, blue eyes. But he was ordinary, if spirited for a human. Thorne knew of no latent abilities he might possess, or of any that might run in the family.

“Not that I’m aware of.” Thorne admitted, “But he is linked to her, and her to him. From the very hour of his birth.”

“Birth?” Evaine asked, “How do you know?”

“I’m told she appeared to him for the first time at his birth, at the bedside of his mother.”

Evaine seemed to tremble beneath her quilt, and she ripped it off her lap, sending the book there flying to the ground. Shouts from the witches around her protested her actions even as she swung her thin legs over the side of the bed to stand, ignoring them as she grappled to find her cane.

Thorne watched as the woman made her way over to him by the window at the foot of the bed, her arm outstretched as she hobbled, bidding him kneel so that she might speak to him, face to face.

He sank to one knee, the familiarity of the action lending a grace to him that few men possessed in this day and age. Evaine came close enough that he could smell the crushed mint in her breath, the dried herbs of tea and ginger. Her eyes looked silver in the sunlight, paler than her hair.

“You know what this girl is.” She wheezed, faintly accusing, tired from the exertion it took to cross half the room.

“I suspect.” Thorne corrected, gentler, because now that he could see Evaine’s in all her frailty, her ancient age, his heart ached for days long gone. For a homeland that no longer existed.

“Then you know what they are. The girl out of time, and the Salvatore boy.”

“It could be nothing.” He protested quietly, “She has only appeared to him thrice.”

Evaine reached out and touched where his neck met his shoulder, squeezing with a strength that an old woman should not have possessed. Thorne winced.

“They are _twins.”_ She hissed under her breath, urgent. His heart skipped a beat.

The others in the room watched in stillness, not daring to breath though they did not quite understand what was being said.

“It cannot be.” Thorne said in a rush, blinking rapidly as his mind raced, “They were not born from the same womb, cannot be of the same kin.”

“Bah!” the old woman scoffed as she took back her hand, sneering down at him where he knelt, “You hear but you do not listen. The will of _Heol_ is never knowable, never predictable.”

“It is impossible.” Thorne declared, his voice stern, “Speak _sense.”_

“There are bonds in this world that are beyond the bonds of _blood_ ,” She whispered hotly, “Bonds of Fate, spun in starlight. That this child’s powers manifested at the hour of the Salvatore boy’s birth is no coincidence. It is _willed_.”

One too much. One too little.

“We cannot know for certain, Evaine.” He protested, weaker this time.

“You and your need for _certainties_ is why you failed the first time!” The old woman shouted, the wooden beams above them trembling with her anger and her power.

Dropping her cane, Evaine pressed closer to him, both her hands falling to his broad shoulders, still strong with youth. Thorne did not shrink from her, his gaze steady and calm.

“The Gemini have always hated the Merge,” She whispered, glancing at the twins to her right, “but we do not bar its necessity. You and I know better than most why the Merge must come to pass—twins born outside our stars must still fulfill their duty—different as it may be from ours. ”

Holding both sides of his face with her cold, rough hands, the power in them shook, then stilled as the old witch mastered her frustration, focusing it until it no longer vibrated the floorboards. Her thumb brushed along his cheekbone, the nail of it scraping lightly across his skin.

“You failed us once. But you will not fail this time.” She promised, her voice like spun silk stretched beyond its strength, “Not because of that.”

Too late, Thorne recognized the sigil she was tracing along his neck. Jerking back as if burned, Thorne could only shoot her a betrayed look before his whole body was racked with paralyzing pain.

He screamed, tasting the distinctly sweet flavor of his own blood in his mouth as his head hit the ground. The sigil runes she’d traced into his skin burned as it pulsed with a life of its own, like a brand. He coughed, choking.

“Brígid! Hold him down!” The old woman barked, turning with a speed no woman her age had any business having, her eyes flashing with a vicious determination.

The girl hesitated. From where he lay, Thorne could see her eyes wide and fearful where she stood, but did as she was told. Arm outstretched, he could feel the twining of her magic around his limbs, binding him tighter than any rope or cord could.

 _“What,”_ Thorne gasped, “what are you doing?”

“Taking my price.” Evaine answered cooly, “No one consults the Lady Evaine Dulaac without a price.”

The sigil on his neck glowed as it sent another paralyzing pulse of agony through the fibers of his being. He shouted curling in on himself, gritting his teeth, feeling his body stretch as the energies of his true body struggled to emerge. Ruthlessly, Thorne tamped down on it, even as it cracked the bones of his ribcage to do so.

“You cannot do this, Evaine!” He growled, breathing heavily as he writhed on the floor, glaring at her from the floor, “It will kill everyone here—your whole coven!”

The witches and warlocks backed away, shouting amongst themselves in alarm.

“Lady Dulaac!” her attendant called, ashen faced, “What are you doing?”

Evaine ignored her, the edge of her mouth twitching upwards, “Everyone will die, yes. Everyone…save me.”

Thorne struggled against another ripple, threatening to tear this body in two as his the beast within him thrashed and clawed to come out. He cried out, raging against it.

“But you won’t let that happen, will you Galeas?” Evaine said, ominous.

No, he would not. He _could_ not. Looking at the faces above him, young and old—all witches and warlocks abandoned and persecuted by the world, innocent of all this, Thorne knew that he could not. Closing his eyes, blood spilled from them in the place of tears.

“No, you would not.” Evaine continued above him, rasping, “And the only way you can stop this if to give yourself to me.”

Startled, Thorn scrabbled to his knees with tremendous effort, looking up at the ancient witch with disbelief.

“You _cannot_ ask this of me.” He whispered vehemently, agony in every breath, “It is not meant for _you.”_

Beside the old witch, Brígid was taken a back, looking nervously between Thorne and her coven’s leader.

“It should be!” Evaine hissed, “You who have lived and died again, endless and eternal. I deserve that chance—not a king that met his end eons ago!”

“It is not for you to decide!” Thorne spat, angry.

He pushed himself to his feet, weak and stumbling. Grasping at a nearby table for purchase as he swayed, Thorne knocked over an oil lamp. It crashed to the wooden floor, shattering into a hundred pieces as the fire within spread with the pool of oil.

Leaping back with a shout, a nearby warlock chanted to suppress the fire—to no avail, for the fire was connected to Thorne now.

Shouting his pain, Thorne’s eyes glowed momentarily with a light as bright as new birthed stars, baring his teeth as the flames within the hearth and the rug leapt higher in time with the beating of his inhuman heart.

Instantly, his ears filled with the screaming of the witches within the room, vases and windows shattering with the stifling heat bursting from within the room, Thorne slammed his eyes shut and tamped down on his power, forcing it to heel.

“Get out here!” he roared to the rest of the Gemini coven, his fingers like sharp talons as slashed his hand through the air to send the away as quickly as they could, “Flee far from this place!”

The fire around them expanded and contracted as it crackled and consumed everything near, spreading rapidly to the roof and up the stairs.

Whatever mad dash the number of witches made for the exit was lost on Thorne as he toppled over again, unable to stand any longer. In a crumpled heap, Thorne opened his eyes to see that only Evaine and the twins remained.

Even as Bran pulled at Brígid to come, the young witch turned to grasp the old witch’s elbow, her dark hair flying with her sudden movements.

“God above, Lady Dulaac!” she cried, “What are you doing?”

The old witch wrenched away from her touch, turning to fix the young girl with a soul-withering glare.

“Saving you and your brother from The Merge you so _fear.”_

“What?” The girl gasped amidst the smoke slowly filling the room, “How?”

Evaine reached out to grip Thorne with the magic, raising him up into the air like a limp doll.

“If he gives me what I so desire, there will never be a need for another Merge. The Gemini will have me as their leader. _Forever.”_

Brígid’s eyes widened, the flames painting the grey of them red.

“You and your brother will be spared.” Evaine said, turning to look at the young girl. Something passed between them, an understanding beyond fear, beyond hope.

Not waiting any longer, Thorne lashed out. The weight of ancient words flowed from beneath his heavy breaths, severing the witch’s hold on him with his own power. With fire like starlight gathered within his palm, he pressed it to the sigil on his neck, burning it out of existence as he swallowed his screams, smelling his own burnt flesh—sickeningly sweet in the air. In an instant, he ended the spell of agony with a pain of his choosing.

Evaine stumbled back at the backlash of his assault, Brígid grasping for her arm to keep her upright as the three Gemini witches took a step back.

“The witch speaks of _immortality_. One that I cannot give away.” He spat, blood hitting the ground and sizzling in the growing fire around them. Above, a beam crashed to the ground, blackened. The house groaned as the flames spread, consuming everything.

“You lie!” The old witch accused. Darkness collected in the palm of her hand, feeding from the fire around her, bleeding them of heat and turning them to cold shadow, _“Steredenn **kouezhañ!** **”**_

The dark energy in her hand struck Thorne hard in chest, even as he bowed over, struggling to absorb the dark of it and dispel it with his own light. Still, he felt the gaping void of Evaine’s magic settle heavy within him, siphoning his essence and replacing it with her own.

Had Evaine struck him at full power as she had wielded during her prime, her influence amplified by the cosmic magic of the turning of the stars, Thorne knew full well he would have died instantly. It was a testament to her power that she still wielded the universe so potently on the verge of death.

 _“Forbannañ skeud.”_ He whispered, feeling the hungry weight in him dissipate.

The witch was on him, _“Bezañ sav feniks!”_ she cursed.

It felt like his heart was being pulled from his chest—his being from his body, summoned without a choice. Falling to his knees, Thorne fought to keep himself.

“You have to _s-stop!”_ He cried, feeling small veins his arms begin to burst from his strain, “They will die!”

“Everyone in this city will die.” Evaine corrected, her eyes black with her power, “If you do not give it to me.”

 _“I cannot._ It is your time.” Thorne ground out, wrapping his arms around himself, “ _Let go.”_

Even as he spoke, the corners of his vision darkening, he saw Bran look to his sister, speaking in harsh tones, any intelligible words swallowed by the roaring of the fire around them.

It was like looking into a picture of his past. But in Bran’s eyes, even as the love he held for his sister shined bright, the weight of wisdom was clearer. It could yet save them.

The young man stepped forward, his sister’s hand entwined in his own, their arms outstretched. Gazes hardened with firm intent, Thorne registered only that their lips shaped words in perfect tandem, before he felt the beginnings of old and powerful magic seep through the ember-hot floorboards.

Evaine jerked back, her body twisting against unnatural bonds as she struggled, her limbs bent as a tree would with age and rot. Her cry of rage cracked the walls, and twins buckled under the weight of her fury.

But they held steady.

Thorne rolled onto his side, taking full advantage of the reprieve from Evaine’s assault.

“You _dare?”_ the old witch shrieked at them, voice booming like the crack of thunder, carrying for miles.

“You **_cannot_** do this,” Bran shouted back, teeth bared in the sheer effort to contain the old woman, “the man has done nothing wrong! This is murder!”

“This is _hope!”_ Evaine ground out, thrashing against the bindings of the spell, “I would spare you and your sister from the Merge. Is that not what you dreamed of?!”

Blood dripped from Brígid’s nose, a viscous thread of crimson that her brother wiped away with his thumb, tender and slow, smearing red across her lip.

“Not at this price.” She breathed, struggling.

“Not if it means becoming what we are trying to protect the world against,” Bran finished, his eyes shining. Whether it was from the billowing smoke or from tears unshed, was unclear.

“You…” Evaine snarled, stunned to wordlessness for a moment, “…you _fools.”_

Her voice was as fierce as it was mournful.

Thorne crashed into her, taking her down. She was more bones than anything else, and with a force that would have killed a human her age, they crashed through a wall. Flames licked at his skin, yet he felt none of it as Evaine roared in pain and anger. Even in his iron grip, Evaine struggled like a wildcat, and Thorne narrowly dodged an outburst of magic that would have taken off his head.

With eyes closed and an incantation of protection under his breathe, Thorne held the old woman close as the roof blew off the house entirely from the strength of Evaine’s fury. Obliterated wood and fire shook apart and rained down from above as sunlight and blue sky flooded in to replace the blackness, the breeze from the bayou feeding the flames ever higher even amidst the mud and green that now surrounded them.

But even now as Thorne’s eyes turned to the sun, the black disc of the moon had already veiled more than half the star.

 _A solar eclipse,_ Thorne realized with a start.

Snapping his eyes to the twins standing in the ruined remains of the house, their eyes were turned upwards to the sun as well, lips thin and eyes fearful. From where he knelt, he could see them smother their trembling in each other’s hands.

“It is time.”

The croak came from Evaine, who laid upon the muddied ground, a burning piece of wood impaled through her stomach. Despite the withering heat from the fire, fear chilled him to the bone to see the deep red of her blood bloom from the wound.

 _“No_ , no, no...” he muttered under his harsh breaths, smoke burning his lungs even as it cleared under the darkening sun.

Scrambling to her side, her lifted her head and laid her across his lap, swallowing his panic even as he raised his palm to the wound and fought to remember the healing spells of his youth.

Evaine’s hand was barely a weight as she wrapped her fingers around his wrist to halt him.

“What…what are you doing?” she gasped, her dry lips cracked and bleeding.

“Trying to bloody save you, that’s what.” He bit out, sounding harsher for the fear in him.

“Do not. Do not.” She protested weakly, trying to swat him away and grimacing for the pain the action caused.

“Stop this madness, Evaine!” Thorne demanded, gritting his teeth, “ _Why_ did you do this? What little strength you had left was wasted on…on trying to kill—”

“You. Yes I know what I’ve been doing for the past half hour, Galeas.” She said, dry as bone.

Thorne bit down on his tongue, angry, hard enough the he tasted blood.

 _“Why?”_ he asked, voice cracking. Once, he had thought she was the one person that would never hurt him. Today had proven him wrong; time had changed her.

“To spare them,” she answered simply, looking past Thorne to Bran and Brígid who stood alone in the burning remnants of the house.

“To spare myself,” she confessed, quiet and ashamed, “But now, there is no more time, and they must Merge. And I must die. I have failed.”

In the face of Evaine’s resignation, her weariness, the anger in his heart cooled. Despite that she lay before him an old woman, he could still see her as the young girl she once was: her ankle twisted at a painful angle, wide eyes full of tears as she lay on the moss covered floor of a forest that no longer existed. Once upon a time, he had healed her broken ankle to save her from her mother’s wrath, and she had thanked him with a handful of worms she had dug from under the garden stones.

The fish they had caught with them had been fat and slippery-silver.

“To die is not to fail,” he finally said at length, gentler.

“Then what is it?” she replied bitterly, a glimpse of her old self in her irritability, “and if you say the will of _Heol,_ I swear I will haunt you.”

Biting back a sad laugh, Thorne looked down at the old woman, the red glowing embers that had fallen into her hair like jewels, spun and woven into the plaits of courtly ladies, centuries ago.

“To die is to become something new. Different, yes, but perhaps not altogether worse.”

Their eyes turned to the twins, now kneeling. Hands clasped together and eyes closed, they chanted the words to The Merge like the spell was being torn from their lips. Their cheeks shined wet as they rested their foreheads together, doing what they were bidden to do.

Thorne did not doubt that they too were dying, in their own way.

Evaine turned her face to _Heol,_ now completely veiled by the moon, the ring of fire around the black moon like the golden iris of an eye. A shadow fell over the old woman’s face.

“I suppose even stars die,” she whispered, pondering, “but what do they become?”

Thorne could feel the witch’s body begin to cool with her blood loss as he held her tighter, blinking slowly as he watched the sun turn her face away from the world.

“Perhaps newer stars. Perhaps shadow.”

“Galeas?” she said, suddenly uncertain.

“Yes?”

“I…” she started, struggling to breathe and find her words, “I am afraid to die. I don’t know what to do.”

Thorne bowed his head, not knowing what to say. Threading his fingers in hers, he looked to Bran and Brígid with blood on their hands, struggling to complete the Merge. Turning back to look upon Evaine, the old woman eyes were lidded, the rise and fall of her chest slowing.

_Sanguinem desimilus! Sanguinem generis fiantus!_

Over and over, Bran and Brígid said the words that would kill them, in more ways than one.

“Do what you have always done for them.” Thorne answered, eyes never leaving the twins, “Give them time.”

Taking her small hand within his, he raised it up, his brown eyes knowing. Without words, it dawned on the witch just what he was asking—for if she died before the Merge could finish, the Gemini Coven would die with her. And as much as she had been willing to sacrifice them before, if it meant she would live, Thorne knew that deep down, that was not the truth of what she wished.

The Gemini had been her family when her mother had withered and faded into nothing, her father dead long before she had been born. She owed them a debt that could not be repaid.

From within her hand, a small white light bloomed, like a lily upon the surface of a pool. A thread of magic, frail and thin, grew in power as Thorne fed in his own essence—so different from Evaine’s yet still so similar. Like a golden banner upon the grassy moor, slowly flapping in the cold, damp wind of an ancient battlefield—the curl of Evaine’s magic at its purest was like a ribbon of light upon morning’s victory.

Time stopped.

Inside the bubble that held just the two of them, Evaine had coaxed Time itself to pause for her.

Thorne had seen her do it only once before, when she had been a maiden, blooming into her womanhood. Barefoot and lovely, she had stepped a pale foot into the crystal waters of a river.

She had asked the waters to still for her, just for a minute, so that she might remember her last hours as a free, unmarried woman—and Time had obeyed her.

A man never breathed the same air twice. But for Evaine Dulaac, the winds would stop.

It was the oddest sensation, feeling his own heartbeat cease—yet he still lived. He could breathe as anyone might, but within the confines of Evaine’s rare power, it meant little. And so, it was just as easy for Thorne to not breathe.

Looking down at the witch, the blood of Evaine’s wound had ceased to flow.

“You know, I wanted to do better by them.”

Thorne looked up at the old woman’s voice, surprised.

“I wanted to keep them safe,” she continued, looking out at Bran and Brígid, their dark heads bowed as they bled together and joined together.

“You nor anyone could have protected them from this fate. It was theirs to accept.” Thorne reasoned quietly as he held Evaine.

“It was my fate as well, and my mother’s. Only I was saved from it because I took my twin while still in the womb.”

Thorne was silent, watching the old witch as she sifted through old memories, not often remembered.

“If I recall,” Thorne said tentatively, “your mother famously rejected The Merge. Because of love.”

“And it killed her.” Evaine said plainly, the sorrow within her clouded eyes only dulled by time, “All I wanted was to protect my line from such heartbreak again.”

Realizing what the woman meant, Thorne looked from her to Brígid and Bran, beyond the time bubble, watching as they both collapsed as the Merge took its toll.

“They were yours?” Thorne asked, surprised.

“After a fashion,” Evaine said, wry, “give or take 50 generations.”

Groaning in pain, Evaine struggled to sit up, her old eyes searching for signs of life in the prone figures of Brígid and Bran. Thorne supported her as best he could, knowing that even if she wanted to, the twins were beyond her help.

The old woman’s face hardened, anger simmering just under the surface as she looked upon the twins, deep in their magical trance.

“They are my _only_ remaining flesh and blood, yet _Heol_ still demands their sacrifice.” She seethed, turning her eyes upwards to the eclipsed sun with a baleful look, “Sometimes I think she turns her face away because she does not care.”

Though time was yet stopped, Thorne could feel Evaine’s control of its tide slipping as she weakened, the fluttering of his own heart a sign of her fading.

“Perhaps,” Thorne agreed gently, even as he allowed the old woman to rest her back to his chest—pressing her against him with an old fondness, even if it pained his wounds, “but I prefer to think that _Heol_ hides her face so that her children are free to make the choice themselves: a Merge done of free will, free from selfishness and the watchful eye of Nature.”

The old woman snorted, and Thorne felt it reverberate from her back to his chest.

“Sentimental fool. You give her too much credit.”

“And you too little.”

She chuckled wetly, blood rattling in her chest, “Perhaps, but no one else will ground your silly flights of fancy.”

There was a sobering pause when they both realized that no, no one else would be around… _after_. It was a reality that had seemed so improbable in the centuries they had known each other, and now…

Such a fate was upon them.

“What will you do when I am gone?” she asked, quieter than before.

“What I have always done,” he answered, proud of how little his voice shook, “searching for my king.”

Evaine turned to look at him questioningly, “My father?”

“His spirit—who he was supposed to be,” Thorne corrected, gently.

“And…and if you find him?” Evaine questioned carefully. It struck Thorne that this was probably the first time Evaine had allowed herself to think of her father in over a thousand years.

Thorne idly tore a green blade of grass from the ground.

“I will give him his crown…and hope to succeed where I failed your father.”

The sting of self-reproach, of that _one_ failure, ached in his chest.

“I am sorry.” The old woman half-sobbed, shivering as she did.

Still thinking of her father, Thorne was quick to words, “You are not to blame for—”

“Not that,” Evaine interrupted, feeling the end near, “I betrayed our bonds of trust today, out of selfishness and fear, trying to take what was not mine to take.”

She took a shuddering breath, like the rattling of rain on a roof.

“It was monstrous.”

The pages of a book—of ink beasts and predators upon the parchment—came to mind.

“It was human,” Thorne hushed, his eyebrows drawn.

The old woman stilled at his words. And though he could not see her face, Thorne could feel Evaine weep, her trembling.

“Oh, I have lived too long. Watch…watch over them, please.” She asked haltingly, the grey of her eyes dulling, “Do what I cannot.”

Thorne glanced over to Bran and Brígid.

“I swear.” Thorne uttered solemnly, closing his eyes as he bowed his head. A tear slipped from his wet lashes, falling onto her threadbare sleeve. Along her thin wrists, the blue of her veins was stark against the translucent paleness of her skin. She looked bruised.

It hurt him to see it, more than anything Evaine had spelled upon him today.

Pleased, Evaine nodded and leaned back to whisper something into his ear. Soft like the ripples on a pond and the rustling of leaves.

And then she was gone.

 

* * *

 

Thorne stood before two mounds of dirt, the blooms of the bayou flowers placed respectfully on each of the barrows.

Over time the grass would grow, and it would be no more than two small hills. Not two graves.

Over time perhaps the pain would fade as well.

From behind, Thorne heard footfalls approach.

Brígid came up beside him, silent as the graves before then, her grey gaze lingering on the barrow of her brother, Bran.

When she had awoken, she had been mad with grief when she’d seen brother’s body, realizing that she had survived the Merge and not her brother. Tearing at her hair and clothes, Brígid had wept with such raw sorrow, none of the Gemini were spared from her pain. She had beat her fists bloody into the earth as she’d grieved over her brother’s body, and had grown so violent with anyone who tried to take him away, that Thorne had stepped in.

Now, with her eyes still red but her face dry, Thorne was glad for the improvement—if only a little.

As they stood, each in respective silence for their beloved dead, the calling of the birds echoed overhead. Mournful. Full of longing.

“I was never the stronger twin.”

Thorne turned to regard the girl, her dark hair loose and swaying in the breeze down her back. She stood straighter, now.

“My brother was always the one with the ability, the finesse, the courage,” She recounted, her eyes distant, “he never said as much, but I always knew that he would be the one to complete the Merge. Not me.”

Thorne blinked down at the young girl, “Yet here you are.”

“Yet here I am,” she agreed, too weary to be bitter, but too bitter to acquiesce quietly, “Bran was always protecting me.”

To their left, a frog leapt from the bank into the verdant waters, splashing and leaving ripples that reached even the farthest bank.

“He gave his life so that you might live on.” Thorne said as he stepped closer to her, “But so too does he live on.”

Reaching out, Thorne gently tapped the girl’s temple, “In here,” he said, lowering his hand to touch above her heart, “and in here.”

“But he is dead.” She protested, her voice cracking as her eyes threatened to fill with tears.

“No,” Thorne assured with a small smile, his voice warm, “he is alive in every beat of your heart. Such is the nature of the Merge—to be born together, and to become one in the most intimate of ways.”

Brígid looked away, her pale face flushing as she struggled not to say anything rash. Yet there was little someone so young could hide from him.

“You speak as if this is a marriage,” She muttered.

“It is.” Thorne agreed, casting his eyes around him, “For what is marriage but love, unified through choice?”

The girl looked to the mound under which her twin brother was laid to rest, “I told him we had to do it. That it was the Merge or the death of everyone who ever loved us.”

Her steely grey eyes met his with a fierceness that was her brother’s, and a regret that was her own, “It wasn’t a choice for him. I made him do it.”

Thorne held her gaze.

“Did you force him to love you?”

The question seemed to take the girl off guard. Her lashes fluttered as she blinked, flustered.

“Excuse me?”

“Did you force your brother to love you, coerce his affections with fear or threat of action or inaction?”

“No!” she replied, like even the idea of it disgusted her.

“Did _you_ love him?” Thorne pressed on.

“Of course I did!” Brígid shouted, her eyes flashing as she stepped forward, fists clenched , “More than I should have! More than you will _ever_ know!”

“Then you are no more to blame for this than the turning of the tide.” Thorne argued, gently “Give him the dignity of the love he freely gave. And give it time. You will feel him with you when your grief clears.”

Tears spilled down her cheeks as she covered her mouth, swallowing her heartbreak. The wind in the branches sounded like whispers—too near to his own hurts to endure further.

Thorne made to leave, turning on his heel, when he felt her stop him—her hand upon his shoulder. She pulled back immediately, staring at her hand like she was surprised by her own forwardness. Her gaze was questioning, if half-embarrassed.

“Did you…” she swallowed her emotions, “…did you know Lady Dulaac well?”

Thorne studied the girl carefully, the corner of his lips lifting.

“Are you asking if I loved her?”

Brígid’s face turned scarlet as she backtracked, “I-I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“I did. Love her.” Thorne admitted freely, without hesitation, “But perhaps not in the way you are thinking.”

The question burned in Brígid’s eyes, a wide and curious glint that was as familiar to Thorne as it was foreign, set in the face of another.

“I was a friend to her mother when Lady Dulaac was born, without a father,” He revealed quietly, his smile now sad, “and Evaine was the loveliest little thorn in my side, for a time.”

The light in Brígid’s eyes had turned to a marveling, grey shade, “You knew her when she was a child?”

The question of just how old they were was left unspoken.

“She would play with my daggers in the forest, my sword too heavy and much taller than her—challenging trees to duels when they were particularly dragon-like.”

That surprised a disbelieving laugh out of Brígid, who did not seem capable of imagining the ancient Lady Dulaac as anything other than the old, cantankerous witch who was much too serious about everything—yet had an strange love affair with tobacco smoking that bordered on bizarre.

When her giggles had died down, Brígid seemed to look at Thorne differently—like he might be family, now that all who shared her blood lay beneath the ground at their feet.

“She was my ancestor, you know.” She confessed quietly, looking down to her feet. No doubt, she was thinking about her role in Evaine’s undoing.

“I know.”

“But I’d never seen the extent of her powers…until today.”

He thought of Evaine and her powers, of the darkness she wielded along with the light—of the time she could bend and the armies she had wiped out in her prime. It was with some regret to realize that Thorne never really knew the extent of her abilities, nor the exact nature of what she was that had allowed her such immense controls over the turnings of the Universe.

“Nor will you again, in this lifetime.” Thorne finally answered, “That kind of witch comes around once in a thousand years.”

“She was working on something with me, a spell, before she died. Something she said would change the face of the world. I wish she would’ve have completed it before she passed.”

Thorne tilted his head, eyes narrowing.

“What was it?”

“She called them dimensions,” Brígid answered, the word unpracticed on her tongue, “other worlds she could create. Do you know of it?”

Thorne frowned.

“I’m afraid I do not.” he admitted slowly, “You will have to enlighten me. Some other time. When Klaus isn’t hunting Gemini heads for destroying his property.”

Brígid turned, raising her head to the sky where she eyed the clouds with a grim expression—notably devoid of fear, however. Thorne tilted his head to look at her, closer. At some angles, one might’ve seen her brother in the confident set of her shoulders. Or perhaps it was a trick of the light.

“The Gemini will have to leave this city and set out for safer ground to regroup our loss.” She agreed, looking back at the graves, reluctant to leave them.

Thorne nodded, “You will have to change your name, you know.”

Brígid smiled, for once looking her age as the youthful glow of it lit up her face.

“I’d already been thinking about it, actually,” she shrugged, “I’m in America now, and all that. New beginnings.”

“And have you decided?”

“I have.” The young witch revealed from beneath her lashes, “But I’ve been warned of telling my name to supernatural creatures of questionable origin.”

That startled a laugh out of Thorne, the sound bright and unexpected amidst the weighty emotions that had sat heavy in his throat.

“I propose an exchange then,” he offered the clever girl, who gave him a dubious look, “a gift for a name.”

She scrunched up her expression in thought, and then nodded, “I accept.”

Tugging out a small woven bag from around his neck, red velvet and worn, Thorn pulled on the drawstring and tipped out a single item.

A seed.

Bidding her take it from him, Brígid held it between her thumb and forefinger awkwardly, holding it up to the light like it might show her some hidden value to the seed beyond the obvious—which was not much.

“And what might this be?” she asked slowly, like she was wary of causing him offense if she questioned him too boldly.

“An apple seed.” Thorne answered. Brígid gave him a strange look.

“Why?”

“Well,” Thorne began, “I’m quite partial to a decent apple _vitréais_ when I visit family.”

She stood stunned for a few moments, the meaning of his words sinking in. Brígid blinked and looked down. When she glanced back up at him, she remained at a loss for words.

“But we are not blood.”

“And neither are any of the Gemini to you. Yet here they are—your family.”

Her eyes widened almost imperceptibly, no doubt remembering his earlier words of what powers love and choice could bring forth. What it could mean for the future.

“I will know you by the apples that grow from that seed—taken from a home I no longer have.”

The seed slipped into the cradle of her palm, precious and dark. When she peered down at it, seeing it in a new light, it seemed to whisper something to her, warm with magic.

Brígid’s face lifted to meet his eyes, surprised.

“I thank you.” She breathed, quiet.

“You are welcome, Brígid.” He answered, “And to what name will I call upon when I find you and your Coven?”

At that, the girl smiled a secret smile—hopeful and pleased all at once.

“Brígid. Brígid Parker.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos, comments, and reads! Your support is really, _extremely_ encouraging and helped me get through this (admittedly difficult) chapter! I originally planned only two interlude chapters, but this one ran so long I had to break it into two parts. The next (and final) interlude will see a return to Mystic Falls where Stefan and Damon confront danger far sooner than anticipated.
> 
> I hope this world building chapter wasn't jarring at all, and that it still captures your interest. I've tried to catch my mistakes, but if you notice any feel free to message me. Fingers crossed that school allows the next chapter to come out sooner!
> 
> PS: Yes, Kai will have a part to play in this story. I'm laying the groundwork for his character involvement that will hopefully be satisfying to all. I love me some family history, and the Gemini Coven are darkly fabulous. The language italicized in the spell work of this chapter is Breton because I CANNOT for the LIFE of me find a Brythonic dictionary! It's a departure from the traditional Latin of TVD, but hey, three cheers for more diverse magic?


	10. Interlude: Written In Bone (III)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stefan resorts to extreme tactics to get his brother to talk. Only, it turns out that perhaps he isn’t the only one who wants to get a taste of Bonnie Bennett.

 

 

 

To say that he was quite cross with his brother would have been the biggest understatement of his life—the short, utterly unfair, five years of his life.

Stefan huffed, slipping his arms into his woolen coat. His small, impatient fingers pushed the shining buttons of his coat through their holes, trailing down his chest. As he wrapped the scarlet scarf around his neck (because mother would be _beyond_ cross with him if he forgot to wear one) Stefan pursed his lips and sighed, a rather dramatic exhale for one his age.

Stomping his feet into his boots, Stefan threw open the door and stuck a booted foot outside—uncaring that the laces of them were still loose, flapping against his calves in the November wind.

Damon always did his laces for him.

And Stefan would force Damon to do them again—and then some. With a little frown, Stefan marched across the stretch of the land behind the Salvatore estate.

Nearing the training grounds, Stefan paused, interrupting the symphony of squelching noises his boots had been making in the wet grass. His green eyes zeroed in on the figure of his brother, lunging back and forth with a foil in his hand. All suited up, Damon struck the straw dummy with more flourish than truly necessary. Really, with all that straw flying all over the place, it was a tad too dramatic.

Venturing nearer, Stefan spotted the reason for it all, leaning against the wooden rails of the fence.

 _Cora Foss_ , her blonde hair done up in her prettiest, blue ribbons.

Stefan’s frown deepened.

Squishing and squelching his way over to his brother and his lady-admirer, Stefan wondered if the obnoxious sounds of his boots sounded enough like rapid fire flatulence to drive Cora Foss away. _Apparently not,_ Stefan thought to himself as he came up beside her, counting ten whole seconds before she finally deigned to notice him.

Cora looked down at him with all the practiced elegance a startled, fourteen year old girl could muster—and had the _audacity_ to look like she had not heard him approaching.

“Oh,” She exclaimed, a white gloved hand over her mouth, “hello there, Stefan. I apologize, I did not see you at first!”

If Stefan could scowl at her while maintaining the polite mannerisms his mother expected of him, he would have.

“Hello, Miss Foss.” He deadpanned, already tiring of craning his neck up to look at her shining, blonde head. Yet the girl was already fidgeting, her eyes glancing back to the training dummy.

Stefan glanced past her to his brother.

And realized why Miss Cora Foss was driven to distraction.

Damon stood in all his leather trappings, tall already for his age. Face flushed and damp from the exertion of swordplay, the edge of something viscerally charged glinted in his brother’s pale eyes. The confidence of Damon’s poise would have made a twig look like the handsomest sword in a fairy-tale drawing.

Suspicious, Stefan lifted a stink-eye to Cora Foss.

“Stefan?” Damon breathed, wiping the sweat from his brow with a quizzical tilt of his head. He had not expected his little brother outside, unattended.

The younger Salvatore blinked once at his brother, before turning to look up at Cora Foss.

“Would you excuse my brother and I, for a moment?” he said, tone curt and flat.

The girl did not seem to quite understand.

“Oh,” she said, glancing at Damon, hesitant, “But Damon was not finished with his set, yet.”

Stefan resisted the urge to tap his foot.

“I forgot to mention.” Stefan added casually, too casual if Damon’s suspicious gaze was anything to go by, “I thought heard your mother calling for you. She sounded quite upset that you had not finished your butterfly stitch.”

The tentative smile on Cora’s face dropped faster than a ball in a bucket. Panic bloomed across her face.

 _“Mercy.”_ The girl cursed, picking up her skirts and hopping the fence with surprising agility, “I take my leave of you now, forgive me. Damon. Stefan.” She said hurriedly, dropping off a few sloppy curtsies as she rushed off like her dress was aflame.

“Wait—” Damon said, taking an aborted step forward. But Cora Foss paid him no mind, her ample apologies still ringing in the air as she streaked around the house and out of sight.

Stefan watched her go, satisfaction curling across his cupid bow lips. His older brother was not so pleased.

Groaning in frustration, Damon dropped his foil and turned his eyes skyward.

“What was _that_ for?” he demanded, stomping up to his little brother as he gestured to where Cora Foss had run off to, “Was that even true, about her mother?”

“Not exactly.” Stefan said, looking very proper for a five-year old, and very shameless.

The younger Salvatore watched his brother lean forward with his hands out for Stefan’s neck, growling like a displeased cat. Stefan did not give him the satisfaction of even flinching, and Damon set about set about strangling the air next to his imp of a brother, since he could not throttle the real thing.

When all his impotent rage had been spent, Damon ran a hand down his face, no doubt thinking about how much effort it would take to lure Cora Foss back to duly impress upon her the extent of his fencing skills. For educational purposes, of course.

“What is this about?” Damon finally asked, muffled behind his hand.

Stefan threw him a nasty look, which really only succeeded in making him look adorable.

“The damage is worse than I thought.” Stefan mocked, eyeing his older brother’s head like being around pubescent females had opened a bloody hole in his brain.

Damon pushed his dark hair out of his eyes, glaring at his brother, _“Do_ shut up.” He complained, racking his brain for just _what_ his devil little brother was punishing him for, this time.

The wind across that swept across the field brought a welcome coolness as Damon divested himself of his leather doublet, letting it fall to the ground. Above them, the sky turned grey as the sun slipped ever lower, sneaking behind the cover of clouds.

“Is this about the wooden soldiers I stepped on, because I _swear_ it was an accident and I will—”

“This is not about that.” Stefan interrupted his brother, “Though, now that you mention it, I do want two new Revolutionaries and two new British regulars.” He sniffed.

Damon turned away, hiding his smile as he shook his head at the audacity of his clever little brother. His monstrous, unbelievable, lovely little brother.

The dark haired boy sobered, however, as he glanced back at Stefan, a wondering shadow in his eyes.

“Is this about your birthday?”

“Yes.” Stefan confirmed, “You lied to me.”

“I did not!” Damon protested on reflex, mind still catching up as to whether he had or not.

“Yes you did,” Stefan argued back, his little brow wrinkled as he frowned at his brother, “You said you would tell me about her!”

His older brother froze.

Stefan knew he had him.

“Uh…who?” Damon asked, looking deliberately casual. His hand went from resting on his hip to rubbing off a non-existed fleck on his foil’s guard.

Stefan’s gaze narrowed.

“ _Bonnie Bennett.”_ Stefan declared, eyes hard.

It was like a magical name. Every time Stefan so much as whispered it, his older brother would freeze up, stiff as a washboard. And then Damon would smile that _stupid_ , lopsided smile that was supposed to mean that everything was OK, when it actually meant _nothing_ was alright.

Stefan wasn’t stupid.

It was a name that made his brother lie about everything that mattered—like blasted clockwork

Stefan didn’t know Bonnie Bennett—not really. But already, he found himself resenting her. Nothing that hurt his brother like that could have been a good thing.

And already, Stefan could see the line of his brother’s shoulders stiffen, the windings of his brain ready to churn out another lie.

“Stefan…” Damon began, tentatively, looking pained.

 _“No!”_ Stefan shouted, stomping his foot, “I don’t want another lie, I want the truth! And I know that Mr. Thorne told me to wait for you…” Stefan trailed off, chewing his bottom lip.

Uncertainty and anger had never been a good combination for Stefan, not before and not ever. Damon’s expression was wary as he looked down at his little brother.

“But…” Stefan sighed, his voice just a tad above a whimper, looking up at Damon, hurt, “…you are my brother. And you _promised.”_

The stricken look of guilt that crossed Damon’s face would have made him glad, any other day. But right now, Stefan was too busy blinking away the tears. He looked up at his brother, expectant. But it soon became clear from the thinning of Damon’s lips that he had nothing further to offer.

Stefan fought back an open sob.

Turning from Damon, Stefan marched off, ignoring his brother’s calls.

“Stefan!” he shouted at his back, pleading, “Stefan, come on!”

Resolutely ignoring the squelching of his boots, Stefan walked until he came upon his target. Looking up, the blue coat upon the squash scarecrow swayed with the breeze. The brass buttons that had once been gold and shining as his own had tarnished to a dull brown, flecks of rust ringing the edges of each button. It stained the blue wool where it touched, and Stefan’s eyes traveled to length of it—noticing the trim had begun to fray from wear.

He took a moment to wonder if Bonnie Bennett would grow angry at him for daring to disturb her shrine, but decided since she wasn’t likely to ever come back (if she ever existed) he was completely justified in doing what he was about to do next.

“Stefan!” His brother called from the training grounds, hopping over the fence when he realized just what his little brother was about to do. His expression turned into one of warning.

The younger Salvatore brother placed a finger on the coat’s blue sleeve.

“Stefan, don’t you _dare.”_ Damon shouted, clearly wanting to close the distance but standing his ground, foolishly secure in the confidence that his ‘big brother voice’ would be enough. But if his darting eyes were any indication, Stefan knew he doubted even that.

With all the strength he could muster, Stefan pulled the blue coat from the straw shoulders of the squash scarecrow. It fell to the ground with a fluttering thud, pieces of straw and bark raining down on him as he shielded his eyes.

“Stefan _, no!”_

Before he knew what he was doing, his little feet were already taking him toward the forest, Bonnie’s dirty coat in his arms as he ran as fast as he could, hearing Damon’s cursing in the distance at his back.

 _“Che cazzo,_ Stefano Salvatore!” Damon cursed as he ran after his brother, “You give that back you little _merda!”_

But Stefan had half the field head start and the little boy swallowed his spiteful laughter as he concentrated on not tripping on his unlaced boots.

“I’m telling mother you said that, _Damiano!”_ Stefan shot back over his shoulder as he broke the tree line, his hurried footsteps no longer wet but crisp as he snapped twigs and dried leaves beneath his every stride. His lungs burned and so did his legs as adrenaline carried him deeper and faster into the forest, the sound of his older brother gaining on him driving him forward.

His heart in his ears, Stefan heard the fateful snag and tearing of Bonnie’s coat before he felt it. Unable to stop himself, his momentum flung him forward, hands still holding tight to the coat. Caught on his own boot laces, he crashed to the ground.

Stefan cried out in sudden alarm as he braced himself. Something sliced his hand as he fell, cracking against his knee as the coat tore free and Stefan lurched forward with it, falling. He tumbled over the edge of a steep ravine, a sprawl of limbs. Unsettling rock and root as he rolled down the incline, Stefan curled into a tight ball and squeezed his eyes shut, whimpering as one bruise bloomed after another, finally landing at the bottom of the ravine with a harsh thump.

Bonnie’s coat muffled his shout of pain.

For a few moments, Stefan’s head spun and he opened his eyes, wiping dirt and cobwebs from his lashes. A whine escaped his lips as he tried to lift himself up but collapsed again—his leg twinging in protest. The wind knocked from him, Stefan lay at the bottom of the ravine, his breathing shallow and frantic.

Mustering the strength to roll his head to the side, his eye caught on Bonnie’s blue coat—now dirt streaked and mud stained from his mishap. He eyed it mournfully, too panicked and hurting to do much else.

“Stefano!” Damon called from a distance, angry, “Stefan! Where are you?”

The little heart in his chest raced faster as Stefan blinked away the tears in his eyes—torn between wanting his older brother, and wanting to hide from what would no doubt be his hellish fury.

“Come on!” Damon pleaded from a distance, sounding less furious and more tired, “Just come out, I swear not to hit you.”

Stefan tried to shout, then, but found his voice stuck in his throat, tangled together with his shallow breaths that still _hurt._ Confused, he tried again—a strange croaking sound escaping his mouth, half- a sob.

Panic fluttered in his stomach, his head feeling too light.

“Stefan?!” Damon called, his voice echoing in the trees above, “Stefan, I promise I’ll tell you everything about Bonnie if you just come out!”

Stefan tried to turn onto his stomach, but whimpered when his leg stiffened again, spasming red hot pain. Slapping his hand in the little brook he’d landed in, the water was so cold it _hurt._ Tears spilled from his red-rimmed eyes. Stefan wished desperately for his brother.

“Stefano, stop playing games! The sun is setting, and you hate the _dark.”_

 _He was right._ Breath hitching, Stefan looked up past the few, shadowy leaves that still clung to bare branches. Above, the sky was darkening—the faded orange of what sunlight was left, slipping away. Stefan felt his bottom lip start to tremble.

To his left, something moved.

He started, eyes snapping towards the sound.

Nothing was there, save the turn of winding brook and the ravine’s incline. Craning his neck, Stefan tried to lift himself off the ground.

Something was around the bend.

“D-damon?” Stefan called out hesitantly, the pain above his stomach protesting that single name.

There was another dragging thud from there, a cracking of a rotten log under some weight. Stefan swallowed, mouth suddenly dry.

It was then that Stefan realized that the birds had flown. Not a toad could be heard, nor a cricket. Like the life of the forest had fled, the remaining hush was tinged with the realization that Stefan was suddenly alone. His ears burned with the cold, listening for something— _anything._

Damon had stopped calling for him.

Dread and the cold weight of it pooled in Stefan’s stomach as he gazed down the ravine’s length, not daring to blink. Something was there, he _knew_ it. He _felt_ it. And whatever it was, the boy had a feeling that it was not his brother.

Nor any animal.

Another drag of leaves. And a step. Like a limp.

His skin crawled.

“Damon, s-stop,” Stefan stuttered weakly, desperately hoping this was just a cruel prank, “this is-is not funny.”

Something, a smell, drifted in the air—permeating even the dampness of the forest. It stung his nose, the sharp odor of something rancid and rotten.

From the dark corner came a voice, brittle-thin and unnaturally pitched—a hideous exhale.

“…Daaaimon _ztopp…”_

Stefan stopped breathing, deathly pale. The voice was a disfigured echo of his own words. A shambling imitation.

And the black face that slumped into view, its eyes clouded and white—belonged to the dead. Smiling at him with too-sharp teeth from behind rotted lips, Stefan could almost believe it had once been a human face.

He whimpered aloud as the… _thing_ , the monster, ambled towards him like a spider on too-long arms and legs that should have been too thin to carry it. Antlers, misshapen and threatening, sat atop its head like a crown of bones.

It jerked and shook in an unnatural imitation of a walk, the blackened pale skin stretched so thin over its body that the creature’s ribs bulged obscenely. The jaw of it, dark-stained and foul, unhinged from its corpse-face.

It smelled the wind, eyes rolling round its sockets to look at the blue coat on the ground.

Stefan’s breaths came rabbit quick, nigh-hyperventilating as he shook. He was terrified.

“N-no,” he cried, “mother…Damon!”

“…muh _therrr…!”_ the monster imitated shrilly as it neared, its head jerking an unnerving pattern.

“No.” Stefan whispered as he scrambled back, crying out as his leg dragged painfully. But his weakness and his panic made him clumsy, and he fell back, stuck in the ravine’s muddied floor. Flecks of forest detritus clung to the coagulating wound on his palm, but Stefan ignored it, shaking so hard he could barely sit up.

“S-stop!” he pleaded, snot dripping from his nose, “Damon, _help me!”_

“…Zzt _oppp…!”_ the undead thing shrieked back at him in his own voice, distorted.

He kicked backwards, scrabbling backwards to get away. Yet all Stefan succeeded in doing was kicking Bonnie’s coat towards the grotesque monster.

Before he knew it, the monster was upon him. Flinging his arm out to shield his face, Stefan squeezed his eyes shut and wailed in terror.

Then—

“You get away from my **_brother_** _!”_

Stefan opened his eyes in time to see something crash into the monster’s side. A deafening shriek of fury ripped from its throat.

Damon came barreling into it, throwing himself down from the top of the incline. The beast stood twice Damon’s height, but his brother was strong. They crashed into the ground, Damon’s fierce cry echoing in the trees above.

Stefan could have wept for the sight of him.

A knife from his boot, Damon was on the monster, stabbing it clean through the side of its throat.

Blood black as ink spattered onto Damon’s pale face. It screamed, shaking the very ground.

Stefan was still covering his ears when his brother rushed over to him, skidding to his knees.

“Stefan!” He whispered hoarsely, his expression urgent, “Stefan, Stefan, we have to _get out of here.”_

Even as the stream of words rushed from his mouth, the undead beast was regaining its footing behind him.

Stefan looked into his brother’s eyes, shadowed by the dark hair that fell into them. For a fraction of a moment, green eyes met blue and all the terror Stefan felt was mirrored in Damon’s.

With bloodied black hands, Damon scooped up his little brother. Instinctive, Stefan threw his arms around his brother’s neck, feeling one of his boots slip from his foot as he was lifted from the ground.

“My boot!” Stefan blurted.

“Leave it.” Damon breathed, tickling the hair on Stefan’s temple, starting into a sprint with his brother in his arms.

Stefan watched as the monster clambered to chase them, his eye catching on something crumpled and blue still on the ground. He reached out, eyes wide.

“But Bonnie’s coat!” he sobbed.

Even as Damon ran, the monster screaming behind him, Stefan felt his stride falter—for just a moment. It could have been a stone on the ground. Or hesitation. The power of Bonnie Bennett’s name working it’s magic.

“…Leave it.” Damon replied, hoarser this time. Stefan couldn’t see his face, but he knew that if he could, his brother expression would be pained.

Each of Damon’s strides hurt him, jostling him roughly. But even so, Stefan hid his face in his brother’s shoulder—desperate to look away from the monster.

“I’m sorry.” He said, wetly. Stefan knew how much that coat meant to his brother—the only thing left that he had of Bonnie.

“Don’t be,” Damon wheezed, sprinting deeper into the ravine, trying to find an easy path upwards in the growing dark, “’Tis just a coat. And you are my brother. Nothing is more precious to me than that.”

Behind them, the beast fell onto all fours to smell Bonnie’s blue coat, before it screamed—and gave chase. Faster than it had ever been, more beast than man.

“Damon—“ Stefan whined.

“Quiet.” His brother barked, focused

“Damon! It is _gaining_ on us!”

“I _know!”_

In the cold, whipping wind, Stefan could no longer feel the toes of his one, bare foot. Branches whipped past them as they neared the end of the ravine—a wall of root and stone.

Whipping his head to look back, Damon swore under his breath at what he saw:

Jaw open, its chest heaving like a war beast, the monster was nearly on them.

With no choice, Damon gripped his brother tighter and struggled to climb up the side of the ravine, his footing precarious on the dead leaves—more so with Stefan arresting the use of his arms for a balance.

Stefan could hear the grinding of Damon’s teeth as he slipped again, panic making him clumsy.

“Damon!” Stefan cried, the monster right behind him.

It took a swipe, and Damon twisted around fast enough to avoid the strike that would have gored him bloody. But he fell from the force of it, and Stefan tumbled from his arms with a cry.

 _“…Daiii_ imon!” the monster mimicked crudely as it grabbed Damon’s ankle with an unnaturally long arm and _dragged_ him back. Damon shouted.

“No! Brother!” Stefan screamed from where he lay, pebbles biting into the side of his face. Damon was going to die—was going to be eaten—

But it infinitely worse was the look in his brother’s eyes. Stefan had never seen such terror, such desperation in Damon’s pale eyes before.

Fearless Damon.

The monster’s corpse smile, infected and gaping, was unchanging as it smelled Damon—nostrils flaring. Without warning, it crushed his ankle in its grasp.

Stefan flinched at the audible crunch. A hoarse scream ripped from Damon as he flailed for purchase on _anything_ , anywhere, to keep himself from being savaged.

 _“Figlio di puttana!”_ Damon cursed, tears in his eyes, kicking ineffectually at the monster.

Stefan had heard his father say the same thing before, often in the privacy of his own study. The realization that he would not see his father again—or his mother— _speared_ through him.

Then, at the edge of his vision, something fell through the trees and landed on its feet. Dirt and dust plumed.

Stefan looked up, his eyes widening.

_Mr. Thorne._

The man stood tall amidst the naked trees, leaves settling at his feet. His shadowed gaze set on the beast attacking Damon, Stefan’s eyes dropped to the object that hung in his grip.

Bonnie’s blue coat.

_“Naon arsav.”_

The monster jerked back from Damon, startled, rearing its head wildly as it scented the wind, smelling a new adversary. It screamed its challenge to the sky, a blood chilling thing as it abandoned its meal and charged Mr. Thorne.

Stefan watched as the sword-master sprinted to meet it head on—clashing amidst a stand of oak trees. He could not have explained how or why, but the force of their collision seemed to crack the air. Dust and leaves exploded outwards as Stefan covered his eyes from the radiating gale.

Blinking debris from his eyes, Stefan looked over in time to see Mr. Thorne struggling with the monster, holding it back with an iron grip on its antlers. Bucking and screaming, Stefan shuddered to watch the malformed monster swipe at Mr. Thorne with claws larger than even the longest kitchen knives of home.

With a roar of his own, Stefan saw a flash of Mr. Thorne’s teeth in the lingering light of the setting sun. A thunderous crack preceded the pained wailing of the beast, as Mr. Thorne stood with a bloodied antler in each hand—having broken them clean off the monster’s head.

It shuffled wildly, unbalanced upon its needle thin legs, screaming its horror as it gnashed its protruding teeth.

 _“Away_ with you!” growled Mr. Thorne, throwing Bonnie’s coat deeper into the forest, beyond Stefan’s immediate sight. The monster gave chase to the blue garment, clambering after it with the desperation of the starved dead.

Instantly, Thorne was at Damon’s side—faster than Stefan’s eyes could track—before his older brother was clambering to stand, resting his weight onto his instructor’s solid frame. He heard his brother’s pained groan as Thorne muttered a rush of words that Stefan was too far away to hear.

Blinking, Thorne was already half-way to Stefan with his older brother, shuffling uphill to where Damon had dropped his injured little brother.

“Damon!” Stefan gasped, looking with horror at his brother’s flushed face and the blood dripping from a wound from his head.

His brother’s head turned lazily, like he was too weary to fully control his movements. On his face was that stupid, lopsided smirk.

“It’s…it’s better than it looks.” He assured his little brother as Thorn knelt to scoop up Stefan as well. Stefan would have burst into tears if he thought he had any tears left to cry.

Thorne was solid and warm—almost too hot under his coat. From how or _where_ he had come was a mystery. But he meant safety, and Stefan wasted no time in burrowing closer to the man, pressing his face in the man’s blonde hair. He smelled of ozone, like the air before lightning cracked the sky.

“You boys must hold fast to me.” He said, the rumbling timbre of his voice warm and soothing, “I cannot outrun the _wendigo_ when it returns.”

Damon was already looking past the man and into the darkening woods, blinking the blood from his eye. He swallowed heavily.

“What _was_ that thing?” he hissed, incredulous.

“All answers in due time, Master Damon.”

Stefan shivered in Mr. Thorne’s hold, despite his warmth, “What do we _do?”_ he whispered, frightened of even the lengthening shadows of the trees.

With both Salvatore boys in each arm, Mr. Thorne stood. Stefan caught his brother looking at his instructor with disbelieving, blue eyes.

“Hold fast to me,” the man repeated, lower and more urgent, “and whatever you do…”

Mr. Thorne looked skyward, his brown eyes almost aflame in the orange light of the sinking sun—his hair like gold.

“…Do not open your eyes.”

With a lurch upwards, Stefan would not have been able to keep his eyes open even if he’d tried. Stomach sinking to his feet, Stefan’s eyes squeezed shut, even as he felt all three of them rise—past the branches and treetops of the Mystic Falls—and into clearer air. Even above all the layers of the man’s clothing, rough and travel worn, Stefan thought Mr. Thorne felt feverishly hot.

Stefan clung to the man tighter, not caring if he bruised.

Rising higher still, Stefan thought he might’ve heard the man whisper words of comfort. It was hard to discern from the wind fluttering in his hair, tickling his face and caressing his one, bare foot.

 _“Damon.”_ Stefan whispered, fearing that his brother had been left of the ground, eyes still shut.

“Stefan?” Damon answered, quietly nervous.

A myriad of reds and golds danced beyond the veil of his lids, but Stefan resisted the urge to open his eyes.

“Are we… flying?” he asked in low, disbelieving tones.

He felt his brother awkwardly feel his away behind the broadness of Mr. Thorne’s shoulders, winding his fingers through Stefan’s when he found his aim. The squeeze Damon gave was a small comfort.

“I...” Damon started, the weak smile in his voice apparent even if Stefan could not see it, “...I think we _are.”_

They sailed through the air, far from danger. And though he felt the weighty limbo of it all, the wind at his back as they flew at dangerous heights, Stefan felt the terror gripping him begin to fall away. He was here in the sky, his brother’s hand in his, far away from shadows and teeth and the stench of the mud and the dead.

Nothing more was said and it seemed altogether too soon when Stefan felt the downward descent and a solid weight meet them—like coming back down to the ground after a leap.

Something light and heated brushed past his cheek. Eyes still closed, Stefan thought he heard the faint fluttering of something.

The sound of a door bursting open startled him.

“Stefan?” the voice of his mother called frantically as her footsteps neared, _“Damon?”_

“You may open your eyes.” Mr. Thorne said softly to them, still not setting them down.

Stefan blinked rapidly, reacquainting his eyes to the light as he took in the familiar red brick of the house, the arching windows, and the white, stone pillars. There were at the back door of the Salvatore Estate, acres away from where they been in the middle of the forest. But it all fell away when his eyes found the face of his mother.

_His mother._

Beyond instinct, seeing his mother’s face sent a lance through all the terror and pain he felt—a wave of relief washing over him, so strong it was all he could do to breathe in and heave an almighty sob and cry.

Arms outstretched to his mother, her face crumpled in sympathy even as she soothed him, plucking him from Thorne’s arms and holding him close. Pressing his little nose into her shoulder, he inhaled her scent like he was breaking the surface of a lake—desperate for blessed air.

Comfort, unlike any other, washed through his system.

“What is the meaning of this?”

It was the voice of his father.

Except.

Except his father never sounded so… _vulnerable_. Glancing up, Stefan watched as his father rushed past his mother and to Mr. Thorne—and Damon, still held up with the strength of his arms.

His brother, who had been on the verge of giving into tears himself, watched the sudden approach of his father like he was afraid. Damon’s pale and blood stained face—blood that was his and the monster’s—turned stony.

Stefan did not understand.

“It turns out,” Thorne spoke, subtly angling Damon away from his father, “that the talk of the natives was not…simply talk as you suspected after all, Mr. Salvatore.”

A muscle jumped in the jaw of his father as he stared at Mr. Thorne, then to his injured son.

 _“What_ did this to my son?”

And his voice was so fierce, so viciously protective that Damon had to look twice at his own father.

“A _wendigo_ —a death walker from the North,” Thorne answered gravely, “a cursed cannibal, transformed by dark magic and hunger.”

Stefan’s father looked down and away, running a hand down his face before he whirled to face the house.

“Call for a doctor! My sons need medical aid!” he boomed, sending a fleet of servants scurrying to summon the doctor and the nurse.

With eyes aglow with righteous fury, Stefan’s father turned back to Thorne—a strange tension in the line of his shoulders.

“I will rally the others—”

“There is no need,” Thorne interrupted boldly, his gaze hard, “I will deal with the _wendigo_ myself.”

His father’s expression twisted with incredulity, a hint of anger, “You cannot be _serious, Mr. Thorne_ —”

“I am. Perfectly serious.” Mr. Thorne spoke shortly, “Sending in your humans will only serve to whet the _wendigo’s_ appetite. The best you can do is to take your children and Mistress Salvatore inside, and enforce an immediate curfew Mystic Falls.”

His father stepped up to Mr. Thorne, truly angry now, “You cannot give me orders in my own _town.”_

“Giuseppe!” his mother called, steel underlying her voice. It was a reminder.

Stefan looked from his father to Mr. Thorne, their noses nearly touching for how close they were. His father was older, but still strong—yet Mr. Thorne stood taller.

From where Stefan looked, the man’s eyes looked to be glowing, a depth in his eyes that seemed to swallow his father’s heated gaze. Tense silence stretched.

“Alright.” His father finally acquiesced, looking away from Mr. Thorne’s unblinking gaze like it unnerved him, “Do you what you must.”

The blonde sword-master nodded, “Tell the town to shutter the windows and to light every fire, every oil lamp at their disposal. No one is to sleep in the dark tonight—not even the vagabonds. Is that understood, Mr. Salvatore?”

His father nodded, grim, “Understood. But I expect a full report when this is over, Mr. Thorne.”

“And you will have it.”

A flurry of nurses came for Stefan and Damon, cots and fresh bandages in hand with a doctor trailing behind them. Against their will, both boys were rushed back inside amidst a cacophony of different voices and questions that made Stefan’s head spin.

“Where does it hurt?”

“How long has this been bleeding?”

“Can you look at my finger please, young masters?”

They took him from his mother, his father going inside to alert the rest of Mystic Falls.

“No, no! _Mother!”_ Stefan wailed, unable to kick so he screamed. His mother twisted around, eyes finding his. The hard edge in her gaze that he did not understand melted away.

“Nurse Chapel,” she said quickly, “I will take him, thank you.”

His mother smiled politely but wasted no time lifting Stefan from the woman’s arms, setting him back on her hip. Stefan burrowed closer to her chest, muffling his soft whimpers there.

He had expected to be taken inside immediately like Damon had, but instead his mother lingered outside with Mr. Thorne, exchanging rushed words that he did not understand.

 _“What_ is this about, Mr. Thorne? There has not been an outright attack in— ”

“I will do my utmost to explain what I can when I return, but now is not the time, Miss Lily.”

Stefan chanced a look up at his mother, his nose and mouth still pressed to the soft velvet of her jacket. The line of his mother’s jaw was tight with low-simmering fury, her eyes looking from Mr. Thorne to the shadowy forest.

“Do what you must.” She finally said, at length, “Make safe the town.”

The last thing he heard before he entered the house was his mother to Mr. Thorne’s back—a warning.

“But if you do not return by midnight, Mr. Thorne, the forest will burn. I will not stand a threat to my children.”

 

* * *

 

As the clock struck midnight, Thorne returned to the house, his eyes distant and his lips thin—just in time to tell the gathering mob of men to put out their torches.

And to stop Lily Salvatore from marching into the forest herself to tear the wendigo a new face for _daring_ to touch her sons.

No one said a word when the French sword-master wordlessly took a shovel from the hands of Mr. William Forbes, and turned to make his way back from the path he came.

When they asked him just what he thought to do with that at this hour, all he did was turn and look at them with a strange light in his eyes.

“To bury the beast, Mr. Forbes,” He answered like it was apparent, “or what is left of it.”

There was a tense silence where no one dared say much, filled with the unkind mutterings about what kind of person buried a monster.

Perhaps another monster.

Father Fell was the one to break the silence, offering to accompany Thorne to do the final rites. The monster had, after all, once been human. From whatever faith or path of sin it had taken, he would leave forgiveness up to God. The Frenchman nodded, and they disappeared into the forest—not returning until dawn.

No one asked Father Fell just what he saw that night that had spurred on his series of sermons on the dangers of life loved in excess, of the corrupting power of the Devil himself—of the saving grace of God’s forgiveness, granted in only Death.

No one talked of the Salvatore boys’ strange fencing instructor, not when Father Fell had waved off their concerns with the simple remark that God worked in mysterious ways, and that He worked best when left alone.

No one asked why there was now a giant, blackened crater in the middle of the forest.

And so, over time it filled from rain and melting snow, becoming a small lake of glass and mist.

A lake that lay atop the bones of a nameless monster, absolved of its sins; the remains of blue coat, torn in half; and a little lost boot, unlaced and missing its brother.

 

* * *

 

 

He awoke with little on his mind, save for the insistent throbbing of his ankle and the bundle of something hard pressed against his side, radiating heat that had him sweating. Damon rolled his head to the side, glancing down as the feather pillow beneath him rustled softly. He recognized the curling tufts of brown hair before his laudanum-addled brain managed to supply a name for that head of hair.

 _Stefan_.

Something tight in his stomach unclenched at the realization.

Damon opened his mouth to speak but his dry throat caught on itself, and he devolved into a fit a coughs, rough and loud enough to rouse his dozing brother. Stefan lifted his head, eyes wide and hair sleep-flattened in such way that had the inconvenient effect of sending Damon’s coughs into… absurd laughter-coughs.

And it _hurt_ so much more.

Eyes panicky, he motioned to the glass of water sitting on the nearby table with impatient grabby hands. Stefan quickly caught on and scrambled to assist. The glass in his hand, he moved to bring it to Damon the exact moment Damon moved to meet it.

Some water made it down his throat. Most made down his front and across his lap.

From the pain head to foot, the wet surprise of water sloshing over the rim of the glass, and the burning coughs, Damon felt lightheaded. It was surreal. Like the ridiculous shape of Stefan’s sleep-hair.

The pair of them looked mad, dripping water all over themselves, hacking and trying in vain to suppress hysterical laughter. Damon’s free hand flailed, finding its aim on his brother’s head as he fruitlessly tried to shove his little brother’s unusually humorous bed head out of immediate sight. That accomplished, Damon renewed his efforts to down the rest of the water without spilling, slurping obnoxiously. Stefan only laughed harder at his brother’s clumsiness, bringing the white sheets in his fists up to his mouth to muffle his damp amusement.

When Damon finished, he held the glass outstretched in his hand, triumphant and breathing in much needed air. With a hairy eyeball, he glanced down at his younger brother.

“If I didn’t know any better, brother, I would think you were trying to drown me.”

Stefan’s smile was undiminished, “In a glass of water? Only _you_ would be murdered from something so stupid.”

“But only _you_ would try,” Damon shot back, regaining some of his wits. With an unsteady hand, he placed the empty glass back onto the table. It clinked loudly in the quiet of the house.

It was only then that Damon noticed that practically all surfaces in the room—his mother’s room, precisely—were cluttered with various oil lamps and candelabras. All the wax candles were lit, flickering nervously in the brighter blaze of the fireplace. It was almost unbearably bright in the room, washing the darker tones of the wood paneled walls in brighter shades. Every shadow banished.

Damon’s eyes found their way back to Stefan, who had followed his brother’s gaze and looked away guiltily.

Realization dawned on Damon.

Once, Damon would have mocked his brother for it. Fear of the dark was not fit for a boy his age.

But under recent circumstances…

Damon shuddered, making a deliberate effort not to think about what he’d seen in the forest. Or the stiff wrap around his throbbing ankle that extinguished any possibility that it had all been a harrowing nightmare. A terror dream.

“Come here.”

Damon beckoned his little brother, who needed no further encouragement. The boy clambered onto Damon’s lap like he’d been on the verge of doing so already.

Damon pressed his little brother’s back to his chest, enveloping him in a tight embrace, tamping down on the rage that threatened to swell when he felt his brother trembling. Eyes skimming over him, Damon did a quick catalogue of Stefan’s injuries. One of his small hands was wrapped with a bandage, but other than that, Stefan seemed mostly unharmed.

“We are safe now,” Damon said quietly, resting his chin atop his brother’s head, the soft hair tickling his bottom lip.

It was a while before anything more was said. Stefan sat in his arms, shaking.

“You almost _died.”_ Stefan whispered, staring into the fire, horrified.

Damon tried not to think about how they _both_ had.

“But we are here, now, Stefan, alive and well,” Damon said, rocking his brother for emphasis, “alive enough to be drowning in glasses of water.”

That brought a fragile smile to his brother’s face, who twisted on his lap to look up at him. Damon very deliberately shifted so that Stefan’s bony knee was not in danger of crushing more…tender bits. Sitting there under his little brother’s scrutiny, Stefan searched his face, running his bandaged hand over an angry red line that disappeared beneath the collar of his nightshirt. Damon watched his little brother carefully, not liking how the tremulous smile had slipped from his young face.

The fire behind them crackled conspicuously in the quiet, a scorched log breaking in two.

“I…” Stefan muttered, his green eyes uncertain, “…I am not sure what I would do if I were to be the death of you, Damon.”

His hand shot out to grip his little brother’s wandering wrist, so small and so breakable. Damon’s eyes were determined, his voice quiet but fierce.

“You will _not_ be the death of me, Stefan. You were not today, and you will _never_ be, so banish that thought from your mind.”

“But had I not gone into the forest—”

Damon shushed him, his brows furrowed.

“Don’t you play the blame game, Stefan. Not now and not ever. There are a _thousand_ things we might have done differently…”

Damon’s eyes drew from his brother to the doorway that led to his mother’s private washroom, lowering to the space below the door, and empty sliver of darkness.

“…But it has done me no good to punish myself over them,” Damon turned back to his brother, smoothing away a lock of hair from Stefan’s eyes, “And I won’t see you suffer needlessly.”

Stefan looked on the verge of arguing further when something seemed to click behind his dark green eyes. Damon would have smiled if he had the strength to. Ever was his younger brother a perceptive boy for his age.

“Do you mean,” Stefan ventured, his small voice hesitant, “do you mean…about Bonnie?”

Damon watched as Stefan visibly cringed as he said her name, like he hadn’t meant to but his mouth had gotten away from him. It struck Damon that he had reduced his brother to this, tip-toeing around a name because Damon hadn’t stood to even _hear_ it without freezing up and having a fit. Guilt swelled like a bitter tonic in his throat, despite that he was all too aware that he had just told his brother that shame and regret had no place here.

Damon had always been better at giving instruction than taking it.

“Yes,” he answered as kindly as he could manage, “I mean Bonnie.”

It would have been endearing to Damon how poorly his brother managed to hide the burgeoning hope in his eyes, had it not been already costing him this much to even entertain the fact that he was going to talk about Bonnie Bennett—the first time in almost a year.

He breathed in. Swallowed. Squared his shoulders.

Stefan watched him with the considering eyes of one who had seen his brother not once, but _twice_ now show that he could be afraid of anything.

“Will you tell me of her?” he asked, after a time, chewing on a fingernail anxiously.

Damon blinked. Sinking back and letting his weight take him downwards, Damon laid back onto his pillow. Far from the dismissal it would have been even a day ago, Damon stared at the coffered ceiling in thought, his mind taking him to a distant place.

“She had dark brown skin and darker hair. Green eyes like yours, except…not.”

Stefan crawled up the bed and rested his head on his brother’s shoulder, slinging a short leg over Damon’s stomach.

He thought of Bonnie, the oddly short cut of her hair and the shapely set of her eyes, such a sharp green at times that he had caught himself staring, in an ill-mannered way.

“Dark skin,” Stefan repeated, trying to envision it, “like dirt?”

“No.” Damon said quickly, not sure why the comparison struck him as oddly… _wrong_ now, even though he had once likened her skin to the color of dirt once, too, “Do you remember the string of brown pearls father brought back for mother from Japan?”

Of course Stefan did. It was a favorite piece of his from his mother’s jewels. Damon often caught him at their mother’s vanity, wrapping the precious string of lustrous, dark pearls around his head, where it would sit atop his upper lip and hang behind his big ears. He would tilt his brown head, this way and that, and mimic the way Mystic Falls would marvel at such a full and majestic moustache little Stefan Salvatore had managed to grow, before even his elder brother.

“Like the pearls, then?” Stefan offered, his polite interest turning into something decidedly more respectful. If anyone had those brown pearls for skin, they had to be a marvel to behold.

“Like the pearls.” Damon agreed, sinking deeper into the mattress, “Her hair was cut, well, shorter than yours.”

Damon picked at his brother’s hair, which fell to his shoulders. His mother had been unusually indulgent of Stefan and his fondness for longer hair. Damon suspected it had something to do with his mother’s ever fervent wish that Stefan had been a little girl—and his little brother’s tendency to do anything that would please their mother. Even become her makeshift daughter.

“Was she a servant?” Stefan asked, tilting his head up at his brother.

“No. Nor was she a slave,” Damon answered with a twist of his mouth, “she made that quite clear when first she met me.”

Stefan idly played with a loose button on Damon’s nightshirt, “What happened?”

Damon’s mind filled with the scent of flowering wisteria branches, their blossoms hanging like a hundred purple garlands against the umbrella blue of the sky. He remembered the rough scrape of the rope net against his palms, spying Bonnie’s brown fingers clutching the sides of a tree trunk to hide her modesty—to hide from him.

“I hurt her.”

His voice was thick. Damon blinked, swallowing as he turned his head away from his brother, staring into the light of the candle closest to him until his eyes stung.

“I promised that I would never hurt her again if she gave me her friendship in return. A ransom.”

Framed in those terms, Damon couldn’t help but see himself as a boy with a new toy he had never been given before. He had wanted it, coveted it, and played roughly with it in his enthusiasm. But Bonnie Bennett had not been a toy.

“I broke it,” Damon said quietly into the warm air of the room, the sound of rain beginning pattering against the glass of his mother’s window, “I broke it and she left.”

Stefan’s hand had migrated up to Damon’s scraped chin, “Well, you should not make deals with faeries, brother.”

He looked down at Stefan, bewildered as to how his little brother had come to that conclusion. Carefully, he propped himself up on an elbow to better see his brother.

“And how is that?”

“Well,” his little brother began with a drawl, “she appeared to you from thin air. Probably to bestow upon you a blessing, but you harmed her. So, trials were set up to prove your worthiness. Clearly Bonnie was a faerie.”

Stefan took a moment to prop himself up on his elbow to shoot Damon a disappointed look, “Only, you failed. You failed because the rules of the fairy world are not meant for mere mortals, and so she left.”

Damon stared at his brother. Stefan misinterpreted his silence.

“I am not stupid, Damon,” he asserted, defensive, “Mr. Callum reads to me during my lessons as well.”

Damon looked down, picking at a loose thread from the threadbare nightshirt he wore. It made a bit of sense, actually, that Stefan would think this was simply just a fairy-tale playing itself out in their house. Pieces of their story _did_ fall in line with the shape of many-a-book, after all.

His little brother mistook his downcast look with shame, and clambered to grip Damon’s shoulders with his little hands, his voice less reproachful than before.

“You should not feel so badly, brother,” Stefan said, his tone bright, “After all, you are just a boy. Men always fail in the stories. Think of King Arthur.”

Damon did.

He thought of the King, proud and born for one divine purpose, who was eventually brought low because of tragedy and the fallibility of human love. He thought of a round table, splintered into pieces even though the greatest of knights had once broken bread and laughed with one another around it, another lifetime ago. He thought of a girl with dark skin, a sabre in her hand and the indescribable quirk of her mouth even as she was made to admit defeat—because it only meant she would try harder, next time. His Sir Bonnie Bedivere.

“I thought you wanted to be King Arthur, Stefan.” Damon said, his gaze leery.

His brother shrugged.

“I did. But how can I be King Arthur when my brother already sits on the throne? So I will be Sir Lancelot.”

As touched as Damon was that Stefan saw him so, it was an odd choice even for his little brother, who was prone to flights of fancy. His blue eyes watched the wiggling of Stefan’s little toes.

“You realize that a woman, Queen Guinevere, comes between King Arthur and Sir Lancelot, right? Why not be Sir Kay?”

Stefan shook his head adamantly, “Brother as Sir Kay may be to King Arthur, he is a brute. And _I_ am a gentleman.”

“Oh is that right?” Damon chuckled.

“Yes.”

“And what of Queen Guinevere? Will you steal her away from me?” Damon asked lightly, amused.

Stefan’s nose wrinkled.

“Don’t be stupid, Damon. A woman will never come between us,” he declared, his expression deathly serious, “We are _brothers.”_

An impossibly wide smile bloomed on Damon’s face before he could think to mind his split lip. The pain was no consequence, however, even as he plucked his brother from his spot and pressed a kiss to Stefan’s round cheek.

It was strange how something so small as the perfect faith of a brother could banish the hurts and the terrors of the day. But they did. Oh, how _they did._ Something indescribably warm and bright spread within his chest at the sound of his brother’s snorting giggles.

“Put me _down,_ Damon.”

“You _dare_ give orders to your King?” Damon growled in mock offense, blowing a raspberry into the temple of Stefan’s head. His brother burst into another fit of laughter.

“I shall tell the Queen!” Stefan threatened, voice pitched too high amidst his thrashing.

His rebuttal, that the Queen was no longer around to punish him and would probably not be for some time, died on his lips. He realized that Stefan meant their mother.

Not Bonnie.

The oddness that he had thought of Bonnie first made him pause, confused at himself.

It was long enough for Stefan to whip a pillow at his head. Despite his small size, Stefan strike packed force behind it. It was absolute _murder_ on his injures.

Damon collapsed onto his pillow, swearing himself blue. Realizing his mistake, Stefan dropped the pillow and hovered nervously.

“Oh, I am so sorry, I forgot!” he fretted, hands petting Damon’s head of dark hair, his apologies coming in a single rush of words. Damon would have laughed if his head wasn’t spinning so nastily.

 _“Ssslright,”_ came Damon’s muffled reply, into the pillow.

“What?” Stefan squeaked, sounding on the verge of guilty tears.

Damon rolled over, wincing as the deep bruises on his side protested.

“It’s alright, no permanent damage done,” He sighed heavily, swatting half-heartedly at Stefan’s distress, “Even though that is the second time today that you’ve tried to murder me.”

Damon peeked out from the melodramatic arm he’d slung across his eyes, just in time to see Stefan’s stricken expression, his lower lip wobbling precariously. He looked absolutely wrecked with guilt.

Damon’s eyes widened.

“No, no—Stefan, I wasn’t being serious,” he rushed to reassure, placating, “come—come here, don’t cry, please.”

For the second time that night, Stefan clambered into Damon’s arms, fitting himself alongside his brother. Where Stefan pressed his face against him, Damon felt two conspicuous wet spots bloom. He ran his hand down Stefan’s arm in what he hoped was comforting.

“How about I tell you more about Bonnie?” he offered.

Stefan was quiet, so quiet that Damon didn’t think his brother had heard him at first. Half of his face surfaced from where it was pressed under Damon’s arm.

“Alright,” He agreed, a wet sound.

“What do you want to know?” Damon asked.

“Was she a… charming faerie?”

Damon’s short bark of laughter was dryly amused. He decided against correcting his brother in the sensitive state he was in.

“Not in the slightest. Bonnie was the most contrary girl I had the displeasure of meeting,” Damon mused, smiling.

“What?” Stefan puzzled, incredulous.

“She had the strangest turns of phrases and was most ill-mannered. Truly, I think I detested her for the first month.”

A glance down at his little brother revealed half of a scandalized expression.

“Once, she demanded I stop calling her Miss Bennett and call her Bonnie instead. I refused, out of propriety, of course. So she developed the irritating habit of answering me with ‘ _Yes, Mr. Darcy’_ or “ _No, Mr. Darcy’_ in a terrible English accent, until I ceded.”

Stefan’s brow was tilted, “Who… is Mr. Darcy?” he asked, timid.

“Some British fop, no doubt.” Damon huffed, slightly more worked up now that he was recalling the insufferable things she would do to him when she thought _he_ was being insufferable.

“She sounds…”Stefan began, ducking his head in thought as he chose his words, “…wildly improper.”

“Terrifying, more like,” Damon added with good humor, “but she kept me on my toes.”

He thought of Bonnie, the last fencing match they’d had in the fresh falling snow at the turn of winter, her breath steaming in the cold. She’d almost beaten him, lightning quick and more deadly by half of what she had been at the start of autumn.

The hand at Stefan’s back stilled in remembrance.

“She and I taught you to walk, out on the grass, one morning. You don’t remember it, but she was there with you. When you took your first steps. When we both promised to be there for you if you fell.”

The cool blue of Damon’s eyes shifted to look at his brother, thinking of just how hard Stefan had fallen in the forest—right into the path of a monster that would have butchered him if Damon hadn’t made it in time. It had been heart stopping to be _almost_ too late. Lighting through his spine.

By the look of Stefan’s leg now and the absence of a cast, Damon knew at least that the damage had not been severe. Damon’s jaw clenched. _Small mercies._

“She _was_ there.”

Damon lifted his gaze to Stefan, “What?”

“She was there,” his brother insisted, perfectly serious, “she cushioned my fall from the top of the ravine.”

He had been about to insist his brother to speak sense when Damon’s mind flashed to the blue coat Stefan had been in possession of when he’d fallen. It dawned on him, as Stefan’s green eyes glittered in the flames of tens of candles, that his brother truly believed Bonnie had been with him. She had been with the woolen coat that had started it all, standing between him and the dangers at the bottom of the ravine.

In a way, Damon supposed she had.

“I think,” Stefan began, hesitant and hopeful, “I think that I should like to meet this Bonnie Bennett.”

The elder Salvatore brother closed his eyes and smiled.

“You know, brother,” he said in a low voice, “I do believe you shall.”

 

* * *

 

“Miss Lily, this is not seemly for a—”

The woman shot a withering look at the man blocking her way, his fine blue suit speckled with blood.

“I think _I_ will decide what is seemly enough for my eyes in my own house, Dr. Foss.”

The reprimand was as dismissive as it was final, and Lily swept passed the man and the oak folding screen, the hem of her simple dress dragging silently on the floor.

Mr. Thorne came into view, hunched in a small cot by the window, conspicuously missing both his shirt and trousers. The only thing preserving his modesty was a blanket over his lap. Lily’s face burned, and she politely averted her gaze.

It did not, however, deter her from approaching him. From beyond the window and the horizon, the sun was rising. The smooth stretch of Mr. Thorne’s tanned skin looked bronze in the timid light of morning.

Beside the man was a pair of nurses, tending to his injuries and sharing distracted glances, flustered red. Thorne sat compliant, his long hair untied and loose about his face. Yet even though his posture had not changed, Lily knew he was aware of her presence. He watched her from where he sat. Despite the fact a nurse was currently stitching his flesh together, his gaze was steady, barely registering the needles at his back.

“You can put those sad eyes away, Mr. Thorne.” Lily sniffed as she came by the cot-side, glancing at his wounds before staring down at him, “You know full well I don’t abide that class nonsense in my house. At least not in the morning.”

The corner of his mouth lifted.

“A good morning to you as well, Miss Lily.”

Form a ways behind her, Lily heard Dr. Foss grumble in disapproval. A man of his lower class would not have been permitted to greet the lady of the house at all, let alone so casually. It was unseemly.

Lily smirked, feeling positively deviant. She lifted her eyes to the nurses flitting around Thorne.

“That will be enough. Thank you, ladies.”

They looked up at her with questioning eyes, glancing at each other in hesitation.

“But Madame, we are not finished yet,” said the nurse with the red needle still pinched between her thumb and forefinger. Beside her the shorter, stouter nurse paused in her bandage wrapping around the man’s middle.

“And you will be permitted to finish with Mr. Thorne once I’ve had a quick word with him, Miss Constance.” Lily assured her, a smile on her lips, “Now, if it pleases you.”

Lily stepped aside to allow the nurses to set their instruments down, timid-like, as they wiped their pale hands on the white of their aprons. Filing out after each other, Lily watched them leave, grateful that they at least had the decorum to wait until they were out of earshot to whisper about how peculiar this all was. How most irregular.

“You too, Dr. Foss.”

Turning, Lily’s blue eyes regarded the balding man with an impenetrable patience that brooked no refusal. The good doctor, who had been doing nothing but making show of cleaning his instruments to cover his intent of listening in, sputtered himself pink. Thoroughly embarrassed, Dr. Foss’s moustache twitched as he untied his apron and mumbled his acquiescence, making a hurried getaway through the door.

When the morning quiet had settled in the scattering shadows once again, and the footsteps of the medical staff could no longer be heard, Lily let the stiff line of her back sag. Just a little.

“This is hardly necessary, _Madame.”_

The sound of sweet curling French this early in the morning was like cream and coffee to Lily’s heart. She turned back to Mr. Thorne with a pleased smile on her lips.

“I know you have no fondness for human medicine,” she said, eyeing the cotton white of the bandages Thorne was in the process of unwrapping from his waist, “but there is a purpose. We have appearances to keep.”

A self-deprecating grin spread lopsided on Mr. Thorne’s face as he looked down at himself, practically naked.

“Indeed.”

Of course, Lily had known the man was as athletic as they came. She had watched him mentor and spar with her son often enough to now that the loose-fitting clothing he wore only hid the physique of a man in his physical prime. All sinew and bone. But that was not why she stared.

The claw marks in his skin were ugly and reddened. Where he had been gouged, blackened blood seeped slowly—poisoned. Thorne’s left knee had the imprints of teeth, and the dried blood followed the muscled curve of his leg. Yet not all of the blood on the man was his own. Lily’s eyes caught on the black spatter of blood along the sword-master’s forearms, clumping the downy, blonde hair there.

“Why have you not healed?” she asked, distracted.

“I’ve not the strength, yet.” He answered, quiet, looking out the window to the rising sun.

Lily pursed her lips.

_“What happened?”_

The man looked up at her, hearing the tightened strain of her voice—so unlike anything Lily allowed herself. She imagined he could see the anger in her, the fear. A mother’s fear. She gripped the cot’s edge, her fingers white.

“Will you not wait for my full report to your husband?” he asked, tone level.

“No,” she ground out, nearly shaking as she thought of what horrors her sons had faced out in the forest, alone, “I want to know how that thing managed to get close enough to Damon and Stefan to nearly _kill them.”_

“Miss Lily—” Mr. Thorne started to say.

“We had a patrol, we had a night-watch, even a Hunter from the West. How did this _happen?”_ she hissed, overcome by everything she had put in a box since she’d opened the door and saw Stefan and Damon, bloodied and shaking and clinging to Mr. Thorne like they would have fallen apart, had they let go.

“It happened because the wendigo _ate_ your patrol, Miss Lily,” Thorne said, dark eyes fathomless, “because your Mystic Falls has a habit of disregarding danger until it bleeds at the doorstep.”

He was right. She knew it, that Mystic Falls had been ill-prepared to even admit something supernatural might be wandering the forest, let alone prepared to fight it. Up until the hour, even her husband had been willing to wave the rumors away as native Indian superstition. Lily closed her eyes and turned away, breathing in deep. The anger, the helplessness roiling in her stomach made her sick with fear. Wiling it away, Lily crumpled a handful of her skirts in her fist.

Men had been killed for their error.

Damon and Stefan had nearly met the same fate.

Opening her eyes, the blue of them no longer held the edge of panic. Mr. Thorne tilted his head, a glinting softness in his eyes as he looked up at her.

“You managed to finish what a battalion of men could not,” she said, apropos of nothing, “they whisper about you now. About what you might be, if not human.”

Mr. Thorne idly spread his hand on the blanket across his lap, his tan skin stark against the vibrant green and red tartan print of the wool—a gift from a Scottish associate of her husband’s. The gentle waves of his hair obscured his face from her.

“What do you suppose they would do to me, if they knew?” he mused.

Lily swallowed.

“They would burn you.”

The man lifted his golden head, a light in his eyes that had not been there before.

“And what would you do, Miss Lily?”

She had not the chance to answer before the first rays of the morning sun slid through the glass of the window, bathing Thorne in amber light. She watched as the man closed his eyes, as if comforted by the sun, and his wounds—miraculously—began to heal on their own. Lily stopped breathing.

Red bitten skin and angry wounds washed away with ripples of light, flesh knitting as the black corruption of the _wendigo_ burned away with magic Lily swear she could _smell_ , heavy and electric in the air. With eyes wide, Lily watched as the last of his skin regenerated itself, flawless and bronze once more.

He regarded her with half-lidded eyes, expectant. Lily closed her mouth, her jaw working idly as she processed what exactly she’d just witnessed. She was frightened, yes—but it came in the wake of something far more awed. Lily released the iron grip she’d kept on the cot-side.

“I…” she began, searching for her words, “I would thank you. For saving my sons.”

And Lily knew she had said the right thing by the smile that answered her, Mr. Thorne’s Roman features infinitely more youthful for the sincerity of it.

“Then that is all that matters.”

The man reached over to a small tray that held a leather tie, dyed cornflower blue. As he gathered his hair above his nape, tying it with the deft grace of one who had done so many times without the aid of a mirror, Lily couldn’t help but wonder at the notches of his spine, just under the skin of his backside. For all that Mr. Thorne looked human, down to his bones, she wondered just how different he was beneath the surface.

Then her eyes caught on a raised mark on the side of Thorne’s neck, red and painful. A brand in a peculiar shape.

“A souvenir from the _wendigo_?” she asked, concerned. Arms still tying his hair back, Mr. Thorne glanced back at her and noted where she was looking. Of all his wounds, this one was had not healed.

“Of New Orleans, I’m afraid,” He said quietly, ducking his head, “there are some wounds that I cannot heal so quickly.

Lily’s brow arched, intrigued, “A witch?”

“ _The_ witch,” Thorne emphasized to her, looking mildly amused, “she tried to kill me. But I believe what I learned from her may shed some light on your son’s situation.”

Lily stepped closer, suddenly serious.

“About Bonnie?”

Mr. Thorne nodded, grim, “I do not believe there is a way to unlink them. Not without significant risk to both.”

“Explain.”

The man shifted on the cot, and the wood holding it up groaned, canvas stretching.

“Think of it. Miss Bennett is being sent through _time_ and space itself to reach Damon. Can you imagine the enormous energy and power needed to perform such a spell, repeatedly, let alone reverse it?”

Lily chewed on her lip, racking her mind for all that she had read, all that she had heard.

“I cannot, “she admitted.

“As I cannot,” Thorne replied, “save for one witch. And she is now dead.”

Lily closed her eyes, pained, _“Who_ is doing this to my son? For what _purpose?”_

“I believe it is rather a question of ‘what’, than ‘who’, Miss Lily.”

Her blue eyes snapped open, brows knitted together, “What do you speak of?”

Thorne regarded her evenly, eyes unblinking. Lily looked away. It was always unnerving to be the center of his intense scrutiny, to be stared into— _through._ Lily swallowed.

But such was a hazard of employing a supernatural. Though she had been subject to enough of his…oddities to no longer be surprised by them, they still unsettled her. The odd flash of the inhuman in a familiar face.

“What do you know of magic?” he asked, seemingly out of the blue. Lily was taken a back.

“Well,” she began haltingly, uncertain as to the purpose of such a question “there are many kinds. Certain forms of magic draw on individual sources. Some more potent than others.”

Thorne nodded, “And to what does all magic then, owe its potency?”

Lily’s gaze narrowed, “I don’t quite follow, Mr. Thorne.”

His voice took on an airy quality, almost melodic with his low, rumbling timbre.

“To what have all the great witches of old called upon, in their dire need, to reshape the face of the earth itself?”

Lily shifted, her mind working. She looked hard at the man, as if the answers might lie in him. But no. Lily felt something touch the side of her face—warm and formless. _Sunlight._

She turned, facing the window, her eyes a hundred miles away as she stared at the rising sun until her eyes stung.

“The cosmos,” she whispered, realizing the truth of it, “the turning of the stars.”

Above the orange haze of the sun, the morning stars still hung, still burning bright upon the last fading smear of indigo sky.

“And the stars have eyes of their own,” Thorne added, cryptic.

Lily turned back to Mr. Thorne, blinking away the black spots of her vision. The dark curls about her face swayed.

“You speak as if the stars have a will of their own, Mr. Thorne.” She said, uncertain of whether this was a road of thought she wanted to go down. After all, it was not long ago that one ran the risk of being burnt at the stake for making claims about the stars and the sun. And Lily had always been a healthy mix of pious and cautious.

Thorne was unaffected by such qualms.

“They do,” he answered lowly, casting his eyes from her to the door, “ours in particular.”

 _The sun_.

Lily recalled the news and buzz surrounding the publication of a German doctor, Friedrich Bessel. His calculations of light and heat of the stars overhead, corrected for distance, had put forth irrefutable proof that their sun was in truth, a star.

“You are saying a ball of _fire_ is doing this to my son?” she asked, incredulous.

The man laughed, a throaty rich sound in the echoing quiet of this part of the Salvatore Manor. Lily aimed an impatient look at him. If looks could burn, he would have been ash.

“I am saying, Miss Lily, that the sun and what you humans call Nature are one and the same,” he clarified, eyebrows lifting, “that whenever a vampire steps into daylight and burns, it is _Heol_ who is tipping the scales back into balance.”

Lily stepped backwards, troubled. Could it be true? If such was the case, it would upturn things she did not want to think about. Things like the universe…and God. Irrationally, she felt her anger flare, heated in the face of something unknown.

Damon’s face flashed in her mind’s eye. Her flush-faced boy with his laughing, crystalline blue eyes.

Lily’s anger abated. Her jaw felt stiff.

“How do you know this?”

Thorne’s eyes were like pools of molten glass. There was an old weariness to them, strikingly out of place on his youthful face, and it caught her off guard.

So often, the man was smiling and laughing, charming and always chivalrous out of gentlemanly decorum that suited him more than most men. At the corner of her mind, Lily wondered if perhaps _this_ was a glimpse of the real man, behind the manners.

“We are all Her children,” he said after a while, turning his face away, “and though I am but a lowly foot soldier…sometimes yet, I hear Her whispers.”

Lily bit her tongue. Though she did not quite understand, a part of her… _almost_ did. Something like instinct or intuition.

“And what does she tell you?” Lily asked slowly, voice sounding distant even to herself.

Mr. Thorne sighed, the sound soft coming from his lips. He looked at her, gaze brown and foreboding. A sense of knowing that even he did not understand fully.

“That Bonnie Bennett is beloved, even to one as fickle as the season-turner,” he breathed, the sun now high enough in the sky to illuminate the dust in the air, floating like stars between them, “that Bonnie and Damon may yet play a part in the making—or _breaking_ —of this world.”

The cold hand of dread gripped Lily’s heart, her eyes wide as she took in Mr. Thorne’s utterances. Too akin to prophecy for her liking.

“What does this mean for my _Damiano?”_

It had been his unofficial birth name, just as Stefano had been Stefan’s, given by their father in honor of a homeland that neither had set foot on. They were names rarely used outside of scolding tones and precious, candle-soft moments with her sons. Moments that Lily drew less and less comfort from, as her boys grew. But something like a mother’s determination yet burned in her chest that chanted, _make safe your son, make safe his fate,_ over and over again.

“Danger, most likely, unknowable,” Mr. Thorne answered truthfully, looking regretful, “That kind of magic, that amount of _power,_ does not go unnoticed.”

It was something in his tone, the heavy grit of his words that drew Lily’s attention. She watched him, even as realization came to her.

“The _wendigo?”_ she breathed, horrified.

The sword-master nodded, “A creature of such limited mobility and dire hunger would not have ventured so far from its territory if the prey did not promise to be…fulfilling.” He said, vaguely dismayed.

“It _smelled_ Bonnie?” She hissed, alarmed, her voice rising.

A muffled thump came from the closed door, and Thorne held up his hand—instantly on alert. Both their heads swiveled towards the sound, glancing at each other with the same thought on their minds.

Eavesdroppers.

Pointedly lowering her voice, Lily breathed in and out, attempting to calm herself down.

“How can you be sure?”

Brows lifting, Thorne’s expression was shadowed, “There are few things _wendigos_ hunger for more than the flesh of humans. Supernatural meals are one—the other is the flesh of witches,” he added, disquieted, “The magic would have eased the monster’s… unending hunger for longer than a mere human.”

Lily shuddered, but hid it well. Thorne’s voice went on, quieter.

“Whatever magic Bonnie carried with her also clung to her blue coat.”

Her eyes shot up to meet his, “The coat that Stefan stole into the forest with.”

“Yes.”

Lily paced the room, mindful of the ticking clock that sounded too much like the scratching of nails on wood. Still in her slippers, her footsteps made little sound against the floor. Mr. Thorne sat, patient with her.

She wrung her hands, dry and in need of ointment.

“What will we tell my husband?” she asked, hating how her voice shook.

“Everything he needs to know. Nothing about Bonnie.”

Lily nodded, grateful that even the sword-master knew that to lie, in this case, was the wisest choice they could possibly make for Bonnie’s sake. Telling Giuseppe would only send him into a paranoid frenzy that would upend the town—or worse, result in a full-blown witch hunt.

Lily’s husband was many things. Tolerant was not one.

“And the children?” she asked, turning to look at the man, her eyes wide with her uncertainty. They were _too young_ , it was _too early_ …but…

Mr. Thorne blinked, needing only a second’s thought to know what he intended. As ever, against the tide of Lily’s fears, the man stood like a beacon of stone—ever facing north. Lily didn’t know if she was grateful for him, or despairing.

“We tell them everything. We tell them the truth.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that concludes the Interlude! Stefan and Damon will know the truth about the supernatural and all the things that go bump in the night, long before Katherine makes an appearance. How will this change things?
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me through this! I'm having a great time writing this and I hope that you enjoyed what you're read! The Wendigo in this chapter is somewhat based on the horror game "Until Dawn". I just love the idea that a monster would use and remember the voices of its victims with the intent of luring more victims in. Can you imagine what you'd do if you were out for a run, and all of a sudden you heard a (creepy) little kid calling for his mother? I'd investigate. And then I'd be _eaten_ D:
> 
>  **Fun Facts:**  
>  -Antiseptic/iodine didn't really become a widespread thing until World War II, so no sterilizing wounds quite yet for Thorne :(
> 
> \- In 1838, Friderich Bessel measured the distance to a star without any preconceptions about the nature of stars--and found they were _huge_. Calculations to distance, brightness, then surface temperature and chemical calculations soon followed, finally proving that our sun was in fact, a star, for the first time in history!
> 
> \- The novel "Pride and Prejudice", written by the lovely Jane Austen, was published in 1813, but had not reached popularity in the United States yet, as of this chapter (1851). Bonnie calling Damon Mr. Darcy _could_ have been the only pop culture reference he might've understood. But alas, he'll have to wait until the 20th century.
> 
>    
>  Italian Translations   
> **Che cazzo** \- equivalent to "what the fuck"
> 
>  **Merda** \- equivalent to "shit"
> 
>  **Figlio di puttana** \- roughly equivalent to "son of a bitch"
> 
> Thank you for reading and thank you soo much for all the kudos and the comments! You are all the best!  
> Drop me a comment if you would? ;)


	11. As the Crow Flies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in her own timeline, Bonnie learns a few truths she isn't prepared for, and Mystic Falls watches. One crow in particular.

 

 

 

 

_MYSTIC FALLS, 2002_

Bonnie stared unseeing as she brushed her thumb against the page’s corner, open in her hands. The point of it curled with her thumb, dull and sharp at the same time.

“They told me you’re dead.”

Above her head, the old-fashioned fluorescent lamps stretched the length of the ceiling, casting a dusty yellow glow about the room. Bonnie’s green eyes shifted from the grey metal of the file cabinets lining the room, row upon row. She swung her legs idly at the desk she sat at, her seat too big and too hard in all the wrong places.

“They told me a lot of things, actually, that I didn’t believe.” She said, empty words in an empty room, spoken to an open book. Looking down, Bonnie’s lips quirked upward in a sad imitation of a smile.

“Magic is real, did you know that?” she scoffed, hearing her own disbelief reflected back at her in the flat echo of her voice, “My Grams is a witch. So is my mother, actually.” She added, quiet like.

Running her hand down the page of the large book in her hand, the roughness of the pulp itched at her palms. Her eyes were serious, grim even, as she studied the picture under her fingers for what must’ve been the hundredth time.

“Monsters are real. The supernatural is real.” She whispered to the page, strands of her dark hair moving with her breaths, as she tried not to think too hard about what that meant for everything she ever knew.

In the fluorescent diffuser panels above her, Bonnie lifted her eyes to the dark spots that speckled the translucent glass. Dead spiders. Trapped insects. Little things that crawled in but never found a way back out, now dry in the heat of the light.

“I told them everything about your Mystic Falls. The four months I was there. Caroline and Elena looked at me like I was crazy. Said I’d only been gone for six hours.”

Bonnie shrugged, the tense line of her shoulders belying an unnamed emotion.

“Apparently, I missed Caroline’s chocolate birthday cake because I was fencing with you…a hundred and fifty years ago. Elena and Caroline know about you, now. Grams and Sheriff Forbes sat us all down and told us the truth about things. About Mystic Falls. About Vampires.”

Bonnie blinked, tapping her finger in a nervous pattern against the wooden desk, warm with her constant worrying for the past hour.

“I didn’t believe Grams.” She confessed in a rush, “I didn’t believe her because if she was right about monsters and magic then she was also right about you.”

Bonnie looked down at the page in her hand, just a sheet in a book more than two feet in length and bound in heavy leather—a book of Records. In the earlier pages of the tome, things were written in ink and cursive. Just names and dates.

But this page—

Her green eyes swept across the black and white photograph—old, blurry and clearly added on after significant damage had been done. But a photo nonetheless. And in it stood a young man, dark curls falling against his brow, his pale gaze riveted to the camera—to the viewer. Those same eyes, familiar and unfamiliar all at once, had gripped a cold hand around Bonnie’s lungs the moment she’d seen them upon the page.

Atop the man’s head sat a crumpled cap, his jacket, blurred by the lens but clearly well made, was military. And decidedly grey, Bonnie knew, despite that everything in these photos were smatterings of grey.

Men were either blue…or grey. For this war.

The man in the photograph stood proud, confident. The downward quirk of his mouth could have been stoic. Or unhappy.

His eyes though, long-lashed and arresting in their stark clarity, were unreadable save in their determination.

Bonnie’s gaze trailed downwards to the ink below the portrait.

 

_DAMON SALVATORE_

_1839 – 1866_

 

Bonnie could do the math. _Had_ done the math for the tenth time.

Damon had died when he was 27.

She stared, unblinking, until she could no more, trying not to think about how just a day ago, she had delivered a blood-stained prophecy of war to him. And here he was, wearing the grey of the Confederate Army.

Blinking away the sting, Bonnie’s attention shifted to the picture alongside Damon’s.

An older teenage boy sat. Tall, broad and bright eyed, his dark waving hair all tamed chaos. Bonnie had known it to be Stefan the moment she had laid eyes on him—despite the gentleman’s clothes and the masculine jawline to him.

No one had a button nose like Stefan did, that slightly upturned tip—his brow ever tilted downwards as if he were pondering the greatest questions of the universe, even as a babe in his mother’s arms.

Bonnie’s eyes traveled down to the inscription below his portrait.

 

_STEFAN SALVATORE_

_1846 – ?_

 

She had wondered just what the question mark had meant. Had he died? Gone missing? For the past half-hour she had scoured the records within the Mystic Archives, searching for signs that Stefan had lived on, _anything_ that would have proved that Stefan had gone on to live a long and full life. That the picture on the page hadn’t been the last.

She had come up empty.

Biting her lip, Bonnie caught herself gripping the table’s edge harder than she should.

“What happened to both of you?” she whispered, mystified and frustrated that in the centuries of history stored within the Mystic Falls Archive walls, _nothing_ about the Salvatore brothers remained, other than two damaged and faded photos.

In a moment, Bonnie turned in her seat, shoving herself from the open book with a hiss of irritation, her fists balled.

“I’m not stupid,” she insisted to the empty room, “I always knew that…there was no way you could have survived one hundred-fifty years.”

Bonnie swallowed, the light above her flickering.

“But,” she breathed, quiet, “I never thought about those things…when I was with you.”

With Damon, in a Mystic Falls of clearer skies and darker nights, all she could ever see was how _real_ it all was. How vibrant the colors of the forest were and how the smells of the town clung to the imperfect weave of her clothes.

And Damon…Damon lived and breathed electric energy itself, his cheeks flushed pink and his eyes bright.

 Death and all its stillness, its empty repose, could never suit _Damon Salvatore._

Bonnie caught herself before she could cry, clenching her fists upon the bend of her knees, the scrape of her blunt nails on her bare legs anchoring her thoughts to the present.

“And I was _so_ mad at you…”she ground out, angry despite its puerile folly that an ink date on a dusty page had robbed her of her righteous indignation.

Her mind returned that winter’s day in Fell’s Church—just a day ago to her, but a century to Damon.

He had betrayed her with his silence, his inaction, his quiet rejection of what their friendship was by simply standing there with his mouth shut as his friends had torn her down, dehumanized her and spoke down to her like she was an animal in their stocks.

More than that though, Damon had _promised_.

He had _promised_ that he would never hurt her again, so long as they were friends. And he _had_ hurt her. In those four, long months she had stayed at their manor, hidden like a dirty secret, she had no one besides Lily and Damon and Mr. Thorne. No one she could trust, could speak to without the fear of discovery and the offending word reaching Mr. Salvatore’s ear.

Lily had been extremely careful of preventing that.

Bonnie had trusted.

And in the span of a winter’s sunrise, Bonnie had been served the cruel reminder that while Damon was all she had, the same was not true of him. And the moment that he chose them over her, she would be left to fend for herself.

And Bonnie did just that. Another loophole in the magic that had spelled her to the past dictated that she never reveal pertinent information from the future—knowledge that could irrevocably change the course of history. The first time Bonnie had encountered the spell’s rule had been in the Salvatore Library. The spell hadn’t taken her back to her time…but it had _hurt_ her. Like a thousand needles in her head.

And then in Fell’s Church, her offense had been greater—enough to send her back. She’d acted on a whim, on the bitter anger of a girl humiliated and grasped onto the single, loudest thought in her mind as she’d driven her fist into the boy’s face, and her elbow into Damon’s side—

_Let me leave!_

She’d bled for her wish, and nearly passed out from the pain of her trespass. But the magic had listened to her. And had taken her home, naked and shivering.

Odd then, that all she could think about was going back.

“We’ll never get to run again, will we?” Bonnie realized, aloud.

In her mind, colored by autumn lights and the smell of wet earth, Bonnie thought back to the memory of a hand in hers, damp with cooling sweat on the forest floor, and a whispered promise to run full speed together, one day.

Bonnie tried not to think about why it felt like she’d somehow betrayed him by coming home, and against her better judgement, she glanced back at the aged photo of Damon. Her heart constricted.

They’d…

They’d both promised to wait for each other, even if it meant running a little slower along the stumbles and the falls. Even if it felt like he’d forgotten it, that morning in Fell’s Church, Damon…Damon had still been a friend to her when she’d needed it most.

Damon had stumbled. And Bonnie had left him.

She swallowed at the realization of it. That she had made a promise too, and had broken it. Her eyes darted back to the aged photo of Damon, the soldier, and felt her breath stick in her throat.

 _Did he wait for me?_   _Did he **die** waiting for me, and I never came back?_

Her breaths came shallow and fast and not enough as she suffocated under the weight of this new guilt, and everything that might’ve been had she just stayed. Light headed, Bonnie abruptly stood, sending her chair skidding back on the concrete floor with an ugly squeal.

“Oh, _god…”_ she moaned, feeling nauseous.

“Is everything alright?”

Bonnie whirled, surprised at the sound of a voice at the end of the room. It was a woman. Mrs. Broquard. _The librarian_ , her mind reminded her. Of course.

“Bonnie?” The woman tried again, hesitant in the face of Bonnie’s panicked expression.

In the race of her thoughts, Bonnie blinked rapidly.

“I need—”, she started, throat dry and sticking to itself, “—I need to _go.”_

Turning, not looking at the open book with the faces of Damon and Stefan staring at her, accusing, Bonnie grabbed her jacket and fled.

“Bonnie, dear?”Mrs. Broquard questioned to her back, but Bonnie was already slamming out of the archive room and out the library door. Wincing, her shoulder would surely bruise in the morning, but Bonnie didn’t care. She just needed to get _away._

The crisp air of twilight greeted her as she swung the library doors open, bereft of any midday warmth that might’ve lingered. The metal and glass under her hands was cold to the touch.

Bonnie reached up and wiped at her face, smearing the tracks of tears there, uncomfortably chill on her cheeks now, in the October twilight. She skipped steps as she escaped down the library steps, and hid the wet backside of her hand from the cold, in her sleeve.

Distant in the rush of her head, a crow atop the library called.

Lifting her bike from where it leaned on the library’s bottom-most stair rail, Bonnie hopped on like her life depended on it, and pedaled hard and fast until the dark shape of the Archives, there in her bike’s little mirror, no longer felt like it was chasing her.

Any other night, Bonnie might have taken the time to admire the way the night lit the streets of Mystic Falls in strange purples, deep blues, and a dirty, sodium yellow. Or reveled in the way the wind felt between on her knuckles as she biked.

 But it was hard to see anything with wet, blurry eyes. And by the time Bonnie was home, her father’s black Honda uncharacteristically parked in the driveway, her hands were all but numb.

 

 

* * *

 

 

A large, black crow landed on the streetlamp on the corner of Bonnie’s street, its gleaming eyes black, having long since lost the blueness of youth. Yet still, in its dark eyes lingered the watchful canniness of a predator, not yet so old to have forgotten that the best meals were fresh and always… _always_ vivid red.

Quirking its head, fluffing its oil black wings, the crow looked down and watched Bonnie Bennett drop her bike in the yard, haphazard, its wheels still spinning as she ran into her human home. Into the arms of her Grams, who would soothe her and put her to bed. Into the bedtime kiss of her daddy, dry with a father’s guilt and the grief of a husband abandoned, ripped fresh each year this daughter grew to look a little more like mommy dearest.

 If the crow could smile, it would have. But since it lacked all the right tissues and muscle things, it simply cried, low and mournful and too sharp to be worthy of pity. The talons on its scaly feet scraped against the well-worn metal of its favored street lamp.

Because watching Bonnie Bennett was a full time job. Mostly. Sometimes.

And oh, today had been different.

Today had kicked bird brain down memory lane. Had seen the precise moment little Bonnie Bennett had returned to the tattered remains of a birthday party gone meltdown, and stood in the grass, bloody and naked like a newborn babe.

And instead of seeing that red running down Bonnie Bennett’s face, shining black in the moonlight, and thinking _eat,_ as it had always done—

The crow had thought _nymph._

Then—

_Sorrysorry._

It was a crow thought that came from a time when its eyes were still blue. Still tearful. Still sorry.

And then the crow had watched Bonnie Bennett run from the Mystic Falls Archive, her eyes still blue enough to cry, and had felt an echo of that crow thought, brassy and unwelcome in its small bird brain.

_Sorrysorry._

It tasted too much like the dust of a church floor that no longer stood, but for ruins. Ruins that the crow enjoyed shitting on, every once in a while.

Didn’t taste enough like red, coppery and bitter down its throat. The only taste that really mattered, these days.

The crow turned its head as the light of Bonnie Bennett’s room turned on, soft and warm behind the cream colored blinds, shuttered by her Grams, keeping all eyes out. The sound of her heart was steady. Sad. And for a brief moment, the crow considered luring Bonnie Bennett out. Pecking on her window, playing at a dove or a canary, perhaps, to see if her red would still look red in the moonlight.

(It wouldn’t. It would be black.)

The crow shook its breast of feathers and turned away, its smooth beak glinting in the yellow of the street lamp. Took flight as it cried again, frustrated, even as the wind lifted the crow high and far away.

No.

No, it wouldn’t do to be around Bonnie Bennett while it was hungry, and she was still blue eyed.

Better to wait until her eyes turned black like its own. To sink its claws into her throat and the _sorrysorry_ came from _her,_ instead.

Better to wait, and ask why she had let its brother die.  
  


 

* * *

 

 

“I can’t believe you told her.”

Rudy Hopkins’ voice was tired as he rubbed his brow and turned away from Bonnie’s closed door. Despite the headache he felt coming on, he opened one leery eye at Sheila Bennett. The older woman lifted a perfectly plucked brow at her son-in-law, and raised a glass of amber liquid to her lips.

“I can’t believe you _didn’t_ ,” Sheila returned, easy as you please.

“You know why I didn’t.” Rudy sighed as he stepped towards the refrigerator. With a soft tug, the cold light of the machine bathed him in the faintly musty scent of a fridge that needed cleaning, and the fresh scent of ginger and nutmeg beef broth.

He froze.

There in the upper, left corner of the fridge, sat two large glass containers of the stew. _Ragout,_ he recognized. It was a rich French soup, eaten with slices of baguette. _Abby_ …

Abby had often made it, when she wasn’t in the mood for anything fancy. Which was alright with him.

It had always been alright with him.

From the corner of his eye, Rudy risked a glance at his mother-in-law and found her watching him with a knowing gaze.

Of course. Of course Sheila made ragout, too.

With some forced casualness, Rudy withdrew his hand from between the bottle necks of various beers, and lifted out a container of ragout instead, trying to pretend that his hands weren’t shaking from a moment of foolish hope.

Sheila, gratefully, said nothing as he scooped himself a serving and set it into the microwave. It lit up as it hummed into the silence between them.

“Does the Town Council know too?” he asked, at length.

“That the Bennetts are witches and Bonnie might be one?” Sheila snorted into her liquor, “They do now.”

“Christ, Mama…”

“Don’t you ‘Christ’ me, Rudy,” Sheila huffed, crossing her legs, “Bonnie disappeared and reappeared in Liz Forbes’ back yard. Tell me _that_ can be explained any other way to a sheriff.”

Rudy ran a hand down his face, feeling older than he had a right to feel. From between his fingers, he eyed the his suitcase by the door—the one he had brought home from his business trip, cut short by a phone call from Sheila.

“Will we have to move?” He asked, looking at his mother-in-law with grim eyes. As much as the Bennett family had old roots in Mystic Falls, humans were still not comfortable with things they could not control. If witches had been persecuted once, he knew damn well they could be again. And as a man with skin his color, it was admittedly not the kind of trouble he had imagined his Bonnie would grow to endure. Nevertheless, it was trouble he would not allow to touch Bonnie.

But it also wasn’t something he faulted Mystic Falls for. If he was honest, he’d admit this witchcraft and monsters juju scared the shit out of him too, half the time.

Sheila tilted her face, studying him with careful sort of gaze.

“No,” she answered with a wry smile that set him at ease, “I made a deal with Liz Forbes. And for the friendship and love she had for my Abby—Liz accepted on behalf of the Town Council.”

Rudy’s attention snagged at the sound of that name, but he recovered. The smell of well-seasoned beef drifted into the air from the microwave, near him.

“What deal?”

“That I aid in the defense of any supernatural threats Mystic Falls may face in the future, and that I will train Bonnie to do the same if she too has the gift.”

Rudy’s fists balled.

He bit back his instinctual protests. Even though his chest roared and railed against the idea that his baby would be raised a witch, Rudy struggled to maintain his composure. And if the challenging raise of Sheila Bennett’s chin was anything to go by, she knew what was in his heart.

The gentle beeping of the microwave cut through the air, like a reminder.

Releasing his clenched fists and banking the fire in his eyes, Rudy turned to the beeping microwave and removed his steaming bowl of ragout, letting a silver spoon sink into the vegetable laden broth, along with his anger.

He chose not start the argument they’d had countless times before.

“What does the Council promise in return?” he asked, stiff.

“To tolerate the presence and practice of witchcraft within the Bennett line, so long as the magic remains unquestionably out of the realm of the Dark,” Sheila recited with no small amount of derision in her voice.

“How generous of them,” he said dryly, sitting on creaky a counter stool, “but they don’t know the first thing about magic. How will they monitor you and Bonnie?”

“You.” Sheila answered, her smile turning from scornful to… something else.

Rudy paused, his spoon halfway to his mouth, “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. I negotiated that you be the one to monitor Bonnie’s growth, should she manifest with the gift.”

His expression twisted as he set his spoon down with measured calm, mindful to keep his voice down.

“And in what world did you think I would be OK with _that?”_ he ground out, incensed.

It was no secret to Sheila how Rudy felt about the world of witchcraft. How he felt about the supernatural realm. On a good day, he could hardly stand to hear about it, let alone immerse himself into this hoodoo mess. Once upon a time, maybe he had condoned it, accepted it as a part of…Abby’s life, as a part of her that he could learn to love too.

That had turned pear-shaped faster than he could say ‘abracadabra’.

 He shuddered to remember it.

And Rudy was a reasonable man, but if there was one thing he absolutely refused to consider, it was _magic._ And Sheila knew it, she _goddamn knew it_ so why—

“You will _be OK_ with it, because this is your daughter, Rudy!” the old witch shot back at him, fierce, standing and setting her glass of whisky down with a resounding crack.

He opened his mouth but with a cut of her hand, Sheila silenced him—she didn’t need magic to command that.

“And if there is _one_ person on this goddamned earth that’s meant to watch over my granddaughter it is her own _father_ —magic or no magic. Or don’t you remember _that?”_ she hissed.

Rudy stepped back, as if slapped. It stung. The accusation hit true. His brown eyes darted away, towards the door to his leather suitcase. To the shoes and clothes, neatly folded inside, packed for a month long trip. To the paperwork that would have gotten him a steady job in anywhere-but-Mystic-Falls.

Sheila glared him down, her brown eyes alive with her determination, her fury. In times like this, Sheila Bennett was at her most intimidating—and so much like the woman Rudy refused to think of, even in moments like this, when he needed her most.

Sheila knew. Knew that his absence from home, so often and so long, was no accident of work. She _knew_.

He closed his eyes, burning with sudden shame.

Silence fell, punctuated by the sound of their uneven breaths. After a time, he heard his mother in law step closer, her bare feet on the carpet.

“The day my daughter left, you lost a wife.” She admitted, speaking of the one thing they had _never_ spoken of since _that_ day, “But Bonnie lost a mother. And lately it feels like she’s lost a father.”

At that, Rudy opened his eyes, his lashes wet even if his gaze was sharp. The defenses on his tongue wilted, however, at the gentleness in Sheila’s eyes—accusing, but not condemning. A muscle in Rudy’s jaw worked, guilt and defeat in the line of his shoulders.

“I think Abby’s done enough damage, Rudy,” Sheila said softly, gripping his arms with her thin hands, “don’t let this grudge ruin what’s left of your family. You’re the only one I trust to see Bonnie as the lovely girl she is, and not the threat she could become.”

“Why not you? The Council could ask you.” He said weakly, grasping at straws, even to his own ears.

“They won’t trust me. Not really,” Sheila responded, gentle, as if she’d known he’d ask that, “You are human, after all. And I am a witch like my mother before me.”

Rudy looked away, his chest rising with his deep breaths. Tension in his expression betrayed his conflict.

 The Town Council, created to deal with supernatural threats, turned its sights on Bonnie, readying to preempt the danger she could grow to be. If he refused to be their liaison, what would that say about how they should treat magic? Treat Bonnie?

_Were they right?_

But even as Rudy entertained the notion of refusing, giving into his fear and disdain for magic, he knew in his heart of hearts that for all his misgiving, he could never see Bonnie as anything but his little girl. For as human as he was and as supernatural as Bonnie could become, he could never truly fear anything his daughter could be.

He _loved_ her, his precious Bonnie. Her laughing eyes. The line of her nose. The imperfect little tilt of her chin when she smiled. And that was where he and Mystic Falls differed.

Because Bonnie was human too, and deserved—wholly and irrevocably—to be treated like one. And if anybody questioned that, maybe…maybe it was his job to make them see.

Even if that meant he would spend the rest of his life confronting his greatest grief, every morning, in the face of his baby girl.

“Alright,” Rudy breathed, uneasy but determined, “I’ll do it. I’ll be there for Bonnie. The Council will see it done.”

Because if a father couldn’t be there for his daughter, no matter what she was, he had no right to ask the same of Mystic Falls.

And Sheila didn’t smile at him or thank him. She didn’t need to.

“We protect our own.” Sheila affirmed, quietly.

“We protect our own.” Rudy nodded.

Stepping back from the old witch’s reassuring grip, his mind went to work on just what needed to happen—the adjustments that needed to be made, starting now.

“I’ll have to quit my job.” He said, steadfast, “I can’t travel if Bonnie needs me.”

“You’ll find a new one.” Sheila said without missing a beat, taking her seat again.

“And if Bonnie really is…” Rudy faltered, trailing off.

 Never before had he spoken of magic aloud. Not really. Saying it meant it was real. Sheila’s gaze was warm when he met her eyes. She nodded with silent understanding. Rudy swallowed.

“If Bonnie really is travelling to the past,” he continued, willing himself to go on, “to the Civil War era, she needs to be as prepared as she can.”

Bowl of stew forgotten, Rudy paced the living room, his woolen socks catching on threads of the rug beneath him. For the first time, with what Rudy knew now, understanding dawned on him on just what this meant for Bonnie—the dangers she would face in such a time.

 Rudy felt the beginnings of panic in his chest.

“Way ahead of you, dear.” Sheila said, gesturing to the books on the mantel with an outstretched hand. The spines, leather and shining with silver embossing, read: _Civil War Timeline; Weapons of War: A Changing Way of Battle; Freedom for All: the Myths and Facts of America’s Slavery._

Rudy swallowed, feeling sick, but breathed in and out, steadying himself.

“Could I arm her? Teach her to shoot, to fight?” he said, unable to mask the trembling in his voice as anything but anger and terror at what his daughter was being forced to face.

Sheila frowned, the curls around her face looking a little more frazzled than she normally allowed.

“She can take nothing with her, Rudy, and brings nothing when she returns. Only the skin on her back.”

And like saying that had sparked an idea, Rudy watched something alight in Sheila’s eyes. Something like hope.

Despite the roil of anger, fear, and apprehension in his stomach, Rudy found it in himself to quirk a half-smile at his mother-in-law.

“No tattoos, Mama.”

She tutted at him, flapping her hand, “Nothing big, I promise. But if I get my way, Bonnie _just_ might be able to take something with her, after all.”

It was just a flicker of a thing, a chance on _a chance_ of hope, but Rudy seized the thread in his chest and held onto it with all his might. Maybe, this was possible. Maybe they could be prepared. Maybe Bonnie wouldn’t have to face this alone.

“I’ll have to pull her from cheerleading.” Rudy realized, feeling his heart fall. But sacrifices had to be made.

“And replace it with what? A shooting range?” Sheila scoffed, only seeming to realize the merit of her words after she said them. It was Rudy’s turn to light up.

“I can get ahold of some 19th century rifles and muskets. I have a few favors I could call in, get Bonnie familiar with what she might be able to get her hands on, if she’s in trouble.”

“Bonnie’s not going to like it,” Sheila pointed out, running her finger along the edge of her glass, lipstick stained, “She wants to cheerlead with Caroline and Elena when they become Timberwolves.”

Rudy sighed, realizing he would have a fight on his hands if he went to Bonnie with this, empty handed. Running a hand across his head, stubbly and in need of a shave, Rudy thought back on what he knew Bonnie liked—and came up glaringly empty. Briefly, the heat of shame reared its head. Rudy silenced it.

Regret did little good. He would do better, from now on. Do right by Bonnie.

“What does Bonnie like?” He asked, looking to Sheila, imploring.

From where the old witch was leaning her chin on her hand, Rudy watched as Sheila’s mind turned—as she held up a finger, remembering, eyes bright.

“Fencing.”

“…What?”

“Bonnie mentioned fencing to me. A little something she picked up from her travels,” Sheila repeated, more confident this time as she recalled a conversation she’d had with her granddaughter, just yesterday.

Rudy was silent as he mulled over the new information, his face shadowed in thought.

Warmth bloomed in his chest as he thought of his girl, a sword swinging in her hand. His little fighter.

A smile, tentative but true, tugged on Rudy’s lips.

“Alright,” he declared, nodding as he reached for the large phone hooked to his belt, “I can do that.”

Bonnie would not go into the jaws of the beast without a fighting chance. Not if her father could help it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all! I am so, _sooo_ sorry for the long delay! I know I promised I was working on a new chapter back in April, but real life caught up with me. I'm currently gearing up to apply to graduate school, so studying for the GRE has been kicking my ass. Again I'm so sorry! Thank you so much for the inquiries and encouragements in the comments, they've really helped keep my juices flowing in times of stress :)
> 
> This chapter is a little shorter than most, but I hope you all don't mind. I'm really trying to strike new territory for TVD (rehashing is a bit boring to write and read too, I'll bet) and I'd like to assure you all right now, I don't intend to abandon this story. If there's a bit of a lull in updates, its probably because I'm trying to aim for something new and worth your kudos and comments, haha.
> 
> Speaking of, holy shit, you guys are incredible. Over 300 kudos? I'm completely blown away by all your support, comments and kudos, like seriously, you guys are _beyond_ fabulous. Thank you again, I swear I'll try to pay you all back!
> 
> In other news, I've added graphics to BITMFA that I made, in the way of a story banner and chapter headings that'll let you know whose POV we'll be inhabiting for most of the chapter (if not all of it). Yes, the runes on the bottom of each character means something. Just what, remains to be seen ;)
> 
> Bit of trivia: in canon, Damon's "death" date was in 1864. The year in this chapter is 1866. I wonder why we've got those extra two years... (heh)??? 
> 
> Also, crows' eyes are blue or blue-grey when they're young and subsequently darken when they hit adulthood, which is what the crow here is referring to, repeatedly.
> 
> Enjoy this chapter! Comments and kudos are always appreciated ;)


	12. Lady of the Lake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A familiar stranger visits Mystic Falls and his eye is fixed on Stefan Salvatore. At the edge of the lake, revelations unfold, and Bonnie learns just how much of the past you can change before the future reaches back to change _you._

  


 

 

_MYSTIC FALLS, 1853_

One day, it happened.

It would be years until Stefan would understand just why Bonnie appeared to him this once, and then never again.  One hundred and fifty six years, to be exact, for Stefan to realize the significance of it.

But as it was, Stefan was just seven years old when it happened, and could hardly be held accountable for the vast and infinite secrets of the universe he would come to know. Or the copious amounts of littering he had done at that age, for that matter.

A sliver of paper flew from his hand onto the lake’s surface, disrupting the even calm of it. Stefan watched as the clear water darkened the white of it to transparency, blurring the careful and delicate loops of ink there into a smoky smear. Then the scrap of parchment gave in to its own weight and slipped beneath the surface. Crystalline clear as the lake’s water was, Stefan watched the paper sink until the dark depths of the crater-lake swallowed it from view.   

The boy turned his attention back to the wood stump that served as his makeshift table upon the grassy bank—once a tree, now blown away by what happened here between Mr. Thorne and that…monster, two years ago. And it wasn’t the only remnant of their battle: all around the lake were signs of Mr. Thorne’s encounter with the _wendigo_. A perimeter of half trees and fallen trunks lay. Scorched earth, dark and dry, radiated around the lake shore in a haphazard pattern. Yet still, Stefan no longer had to squint to see the signs of new life, slowly creeping back toward the water.

The place was not as cursed as it one seemed.

Thick grass, still that un-ripened green, crept a little closer each year. Young trees, some taller and some shorter, already dotted around the lake. Stefan sat at the lushest corner, the Salvatore estate at his back.

Because.

_Well._

Seeing the blurred shape of his brother in the distant training grounds, too focused, too hard at work to have time for anything, or anyone, still hurt.

Damon had changed.

 Ever since that day, ever since they had both learned what it had meant to be prey, to be on the losing end of humanity’s secret war—something in Damon had shifted askew.  The shadow of responsibility that had never been there before, now seemed to rest in the dark circles beneath Damon’s blue eyes. And every time his brother looked at him, Stefan saw him harden a little more.

All for the favor of a father’s hand, that a fickle warmth on his eldest son’s shoulder.

Stefan had never hated anything before. But he knew, in his bones, that he hated that hand upon his brother. It had taken him away from Stefan, after all.

And now they called Damon a natural borne Hunter.

Stefan snorted primly, pushed a lock of his brown hair back, and peeled another jagged piece of paper from his fine, leather journal. It tore easily, and he smoothed it over the dry, blackened surface of the stump that he sat beside. Uncapping his father’s fountain pen, state-of-the-art straight from the patents in England and blatantly stolen from his desk, Stefan set about scribbling his next note.

“Dear Bonnie Bennett,” he mumbled out loud, writing the same salutation that he had for what must have been the hundredth time. The sharp nib of his pen scratched quiet lines as he formed his letters in that overly careful way he often did when Mr. Callum leaned a little too close with his fearsome, wooden ruler.

“I have grown an inch. Perhaps tomorrow, Father will let me start training with Damon,” he wrote to a girl he had never met. Always succinct. Always relevant to things Stefan thought she ought to know. Always reverent.

_My mother still sings that song she says you taught her. It is strange and lovely._

_Damon has not talked of you in a year, but I am sure he still holds you in the highest esteem. Do not fear._

_Thank you for saving me from the wendigo. I promise to return the favor._

Such things and notes rested under the water.

Stefan tossed his newest missive into the lake, knowing it would reach that blue coat, sitting at the muddied bottom. As it sank, a warm, brisk wind swept across the surface of the water, spraying a fine mist of it into the air, speckling the apples of Stefan’s cheeks.

 He smiled a private smile. The lake often did that, here.

Except the mist never seemed to return to the water below it, not entirely. The fine droplets hung in the air like crystal dust, lingering like the laws of gravity didn’t quite hold sway here. Secretly, Stefan knew the lake to be magical.

After all, one night not so long ago, he had spied Mr. Thorne at the shore, weeping. Silent of course, utterly soundless—evident only by the shine of tears upon the man’s face in the pale light of the moon.

It had been the night of Stefan’s seventh birthday, and Mr. Thorne had made him a carpenter’s masterpiece—a narrow and flat wooden canoe to take across the lake (though Mr. Thorne had corrected him, saying it was a barge), carved in the Roman style.

When night had fallen after the party and the moon was high, when the swordmaster had believed himself alone, Stefan had spied him wading into the dark waters as the night mists descended, distant eyes fixated on the empty barge, floating through the mists like it glided on air.

Something about that sight had brought the man to tears. Taciturn, Mr. Thorne! And if that did not mean the lake was somehow magical, Stefan did not know what did.

Still thinking of the French swordmaster, Stefan turned his eyes to that same wooden barge, now moored by an iron chain to the shore but a few paces from where he sat. He considered its delicate upswept curves, its bow and stern shaped into the now familiar head of a feathered dragon, eyes cast towards the water below in calm repose.

Stefan scribbled out his next note.

“Mr. Thorne still refuses to tell me what kind of monster he is. I hope he is not a Vampire.”

Lifting his face to the summer sky, Stefan thought of that bloodsucking lot of beasts. They seemed to be the most loathsome kind of monster, eternally hungry and feral for it. Mr. Thorne did not seem to be hungry all the time—but he _had_ flown like Vampires do, just the once. Stefan remembered that, above all. Despite the fog of panic that clung to every memory Stefan had of that day of the wendigo attack, he did remember Mr. Thorne urging them not to open their eyes.

If he had, Stefan wondered just what kind of beast he would have seen. Absently, he let his next paper note fall into the watery depths.

“I hope you are well, Bonnie Bennett,” Stefan wrote next, “Please come back soon. Our Round Table is less round without you.”

The little scrap of parchment in his hand, Stefan stood and stepped barefoot to the lake’s edge. Arm drawn back, Stefan tensed, readying to send his final note of the day deep into the lake. But something gave him pause.

Something strange stirred the air.

Despite the heat of the summer sun, Stefan felt an unseasonable chill sweep outward from the lake. An ominous silence followed in its wake, seeming to swallow even the gentle sound of water lapping at the shore and the wooden hull of the boat nearby.

Stefan’s green eyes widened. This had to be _magic._

Across the water, his eye caught on a thickening mist, swirling slowly. Around it, shadow seemed to cling to the mist’s edges, gathering like steam, except _that_ couldn’t be right. Even in the fullness of the midday sun, the dark surrounding the swirling mist seemed to deepen, somehow, into a greedy black that reflected no light, swallowing it whole instead.

In fact, the swirling darkness seemed to steal the very heat from the air—from the skin of his face and his hands.

Paper still crumpled in his damp palm, Stefan stepped back, swallowing. He knew trouble when he saw it. Yet there was something arresting about the darkness above the lake. If Stefan looked hard enough, he swore he could see something like the glimmer of starlight, beyond a veil. Torn between curiosity and alarm, Stefan hesitated to turn.

Then it happened.

 A pale hand tore through the membrane of the swirling hole in the air, rippling like the surface of water—and closed into a brutal fist.

Stefan shouted, feeling something heavy and too tight circle round his limbs, an invisible force like the pale hand above the water itself.

Across the lake, the swirling vortex expanded, visibly cracking the air around it—like the radiating threads of a shattered mirror. A sound, like a thousand whispers on the wind, swelled and quieted.

Eyes widening, Stefan’s breath caught in his chest.

 _How_ , he had no idea, but the hole above the misty surface of the lake dilated until it was approximately the size of a man.

And that was exactly who stepped out.

 The hand came forward to reveal an arm and a body and eventually a face as he stepped out onto the lake. Agitated and rippling, the water lapped at the underside of the man’s feet—but he did not sink. Standing tall and elegant, he swept his pale gaze along the shoreline until he found Stefan.

 The boy’s eyes bugged from his head.

“I’d make a joke about being your Jesus, Saint Stefan,” The man who stood on water said, “but I’d be lying if I said I was your savior.”

His voice was young, younger than most—but still much older than even Damon’s. His tone, mocking and dark, matched the wicked gleam in his grey-blue eyes. Only then did Stefan remember to be afraid. He tried to bring his arms forward, to call out, but found everything stolen from him—his voice, his ability to move. He could only breathe, and those breaths quickened as the man jauntily stepped across the water towards him. Stefan smelled something like spent gunpowder in the air, hollow and acrid.

When the lake man was finally close enough touch solid ground, Stefan trembled at the strangeness of him. His clothes were dark and loose and completely unlike anything anyone wore in proper society. Significantly taller than Stefan, he wore his brown hair shorter than any man of their day and age, and his facial hair—neither fully shaven or the close-cut style that Mr. Thorne favored, gave the man a roguish, dangerous air. He was handsome in a strange boyish way that clashed with his age and with the masculine cut of his jawline.

Stefan wiggled against the invisible bonds holding him in place, to no avail.

The lake man looked past him, sweeping his eyes around the grounds to what was no doubt the sight of the Salvatore estate, raising his eyebrows as he whistled lowly.

“Precise as always, my dear.” He praised quietly, to no one Stefan could see.

And the boy couldn’t quite suppress the shudder that ran through him when the man aimed that sharp smile at him. A little too stretched at the corners, too gleeful to be anything but insincere, and undercut by the unnerving emptiness in his grey eyes.

The man knelt before him, uncomfortably close as he openly examined Stefan like he was a particularly interesting trinket.

“My, _aren’t_ we cute—cuter than I thought you’d be. I’ll give you that. I mean, look at those _cheeks.”_

The stranger reached out with both hands and pinched Stefan’s cheeks, giving them a jiggle. It was too hard and too rough to resemble anything like what his mother did.

Stefan started to hyperventilate.

 _“Oh_ no, don’t do that on me.” The man tutted, looking put out, “C’mon, calm down. If I let you talk, will you calm down?”

In the midst of his dizzying panic and the senseless, bizarre way this man talked, Stefan managed to nod, frantic and desperate. He stilled, however, when the stranger pressed a dry finger to his lips—cold and unwelcome. The older man tilted his head, a quirk of a smile across his lips.

“But if you scream, little Salvatore, I’ll rip your tongue out.” He warned with a flutter of his lashes.

The blood in Stefan’s veins ran cold, even as he felt a weight lifted from his tongue.

“ _What,_ ” Stefan wheezed, even as he struggled anew, “what do you _want_ with me?”

“Ha, well you see,” the man said, slightly jittery as he leaned back and forth on the balls of his bare feet, “you’re the key to most everything.”

Stefan looked at the man like he was mad. Strange enough though, the man seemed amused by it instead of insulted. Was slightly apologetic for it, even.

“You make no sense whatsoever, sir,” Stefan managed to say.

The man held up his hands in a placating manner, “Ok… sorry, sorry,” he apologized, utterly insincere, “context, then.”

The man took hold of Stefan’s shoulders and jiggled him with what Stefan supposed was intended to be emphasis. Stefan’s vision blurred with it.

“OK, so where I’m from and to the party I represent,” The lake man began, speaking slowly like Stefan was soft in the head, “we don’t like you very much. OK, let’s be real, we actually _kind of_ hate you.”

The man confessed his words in hushed, conspiratorial tones, like he was sharing a shameful secret. And he must have seen something catch in Stefan’s expression because the man was quick to clarify.

“Oh, it’s nothing personal,” he assured with wide eyes, “It’s nothing you’ve done. Well, not yet, but hey, not that there’s much of a difference.”

Stefan stiffened, struggling to understand the rambling, exaggerated way the man talked.

“You… _know me?”_

It was _impossible_. Stefan had never met this man in his life! He would have remembered such an unnatural smile.

“Of course I know you, everyone knows you, Mr. Popular!” the man laughed. The flash of his white teeth frightened Stefan.

“Please…” Stefan said, shaking, unsure of just what he was asking. A light changed in the man’s grey eyes.

“Oh so polite you kids. ‘Please’ what?” the stranger prompted casually, a pleased edge to his smile now.

Stefan took deep breaths, feeling his hair cling to the damp heat of his forehead. The unforgiving grip of whatever force held his limbs in place was beginning to hurt. He felt his fingertips begin to tingle with numbness.

“Please let me go,” Stefan begged softly, his mind racing “I…I promise I won’t tell anyone that you have magic, that you’re a warlock, and nobody will come after—”

“What?”

It wasn’t the interruption that caught Stefan’s attention, but the strange tilt in the man’s voice. Lifting his gaze from the safety of the ground, Stefan studied his captor’s face.

 The man’s expression had a wary edge to it now, a slip of something more serious behind his eyes.

Stefan repeated himself a rush, “I promise I won’t tell anyone you’re a warlock if you just let—”

He bit his own tongue as the man gripped Stefan’s chin, jerking his face upwards. The stranger’s cold fingertips dug into his jaw, rough and painful. Stefan tasted blood.

“And just how is it that you know about magic and warlocks, Little Stefan?” the man asked, contemplative.

He sounded half surprised, half suspicious.

Stefan blinked rapidly, thinking of an answer that wouldn’t make the man hurt him any more than he had.

“I—” he started and stopped, painfully uncertain, “—my parents told me. My swordmaster and my tutor told me everything two years ago. Please don’t hurt me,” he confessed, honest.

Behind the man, the lake seemed to get even more agitated, no longer calm as it had been before the strange warlock had stepped through that magical door of his. Stefan’s eyes darted to the vortex, still hovering above the lake’s surface, pulsing and swirling. He wondered, raggedly, if maybe someone at the estate might somehow see it and come rescue him.

Looking back at the man, Stefan found him staring the surrounding area, fixated on the Salvatore estate at Stefan’s back—a considering and oddly curious expression on his face, like he was seeing something for the first time. It was the most sincere thing that had crossed seen cross the man’s face since he’d spelled Stefan to stillness and smiled at his frozen terror.

Stefan shivered as the man looked back at him, like somehow Stefan had told him something wondrously new.

“What year is it?”

Stefan was taken aback by the odd question. He swallowed, throat dry.

 “1853,” Stefan answered. Around him, the leaves on the new trees tittered nervously.

“And are you telling me, little Stefan,” the man began, sounding infinitely pleased with a tilt of his head, “that you already know about Vampires?”

Dread sat heavy and cold in Stefan’s stomach.

Stefan had the distinct impression that this question was not simply a question. That there was something dark underlying his words, filled with knowledge Stefan was not privy to.

“I-I do.” The boy confirmed, shaking, feeling like the man’s grey eyes were swallowing him whole in their intensity.

The man’s amusement bubbled forth into bright laughter, turning his face away. Stefan could hardly fathom why such an answer merited amusement. He stared openly.

The man was clearly deranged somehow, the brightness of his full-bodied laughter at odds with the cruelty in his eyes, now closed. Any other day, Stefan would have thought his smile to be charming, almost as charming as his brother’s, had he not spied the long, sharpened edge of a tooth. The canine tooth.

Realization came almost at once, like a slap.

“You—” Stefan gasped, “—you’re a—”

One lazy, silver eye cracked open and slid over to gaze at Stefan knowingly. The man winked, even as a hint of black, spidery veins surfaced and faded, around his eyes.

“Call me Kai.”

The boy opened his mouth to scream when—Kai—as he called himself, materialized from behind and clamped a hand over his lips. Another hand, cold and dry, slithered ‘round Stefan’s neck, squeezing just hard enough to warn. It had happened in a fraction of a second, too fast for Stefan’s eye to track.

“Ah _ah,_ little Stefan, now what did we say about screaming? Shall I rip out your tongue?” he tutted.

Stefan’s eyes brimmed with tears. He was going to die. He was either going to die from a heart burst from fear, or because of this _monster._ Either way, Stefan was going to die.

“It would be a terrible, terrible way to go, wouldn’t it?” Kai mused, pressing closer so that Stefan’s small frame fit against his chest, his breaths chilling the shell of Stefan’s ear, “But it wouldn’t be much worse than if I drank you dry.”

The man tapped his long fingers across the delicate skin of Stefan’s throat like he would a piano, playing the precarious notes of the boy’s life.

This close, Stefan became hyper aware of the way the man’s chest rose and fell with air he did not need, the sluggish heartbeat  pressed to his back that was not alive, and the odd smell of gunpowder and distant pine on the vampire. 

Stefan had always imagined that a vampire would smell like the rotted carcass it was—like the wendigo—but Kai did not. And Stefan wasn’t sure why it struck him, at this very moment, that the vampire smelled like any other man.

Stefan twisted in Kai’s hold, enough to free his mouth.

“I don’t want to die _, please, sir.”_ He begged, face wet, _“Please.”_

“Oh, but you must,” the man purred, “you’re the key to everything.”

Hot tears spilled from his cheeks as Stefan struggled in earnest, feeling the man lift him with one arm like he weighed nothing, fingers fisted in his cotton shirt. Stefan hung uselessly as the man, Kai, brought him to the edge of the water. His small feet dangled, reflecting the soles of his shoes back at him.

“Because of you, misfortune turns,” Kai said, voice dark.

And just as he had come, the man began taking him across the water, walking across the turbulence of it, deeper into the lake. His feet did not splash—and Stefan could not scream for the shock of seeing the effortless magic  of it a second time.

With a flick of his pale hand, Stefan felt the man dispel the curse that held his body stiff. He kicked and flailed with his sudden freedom, mind racing with the hope that if he managed to get into the water, Stefan knew he could swim. But even without the aid of the spell, Kai had little difficulty maintaining his hold on him. To the vampire, Stefan was little more trouble than a rag struggling in the wind.

“No _!”_ Stefan shouted in a rush of breath, “Please don’t do this, I haven’t done anything!”

“But you will.” Kai replied without looking at him, “And I’ve come to make sure you never do.”

The chill on Stefan’s skin burned this close to the center of the lake, to the magical portal that had brought this wicked man to Stefan in the first place.

“Tell me Stefan,” the man smiled, pausing, “how fond are you of water?”

Stefan had not the chance to answer or even scream before his head was forced beneath the water, the brutal grip on his hair nothing compared to the metallic sting of water rushing into his nose and into his eyes. He struggled, shouts muffled by the lake, streams of his breath escaping with every desperate movement. Stefan’s lungs burned, the hand holding his head down cruel and unyielding.

Moments like minutes like hours like days passed as Stefan thrashed and burned for air, even as he faded.

He had no mind to think of the mother he’d never see again, the brother who hung the sun and stars for him every night and morn, the father who he had hoped to on day make proud.

He was too weak. Too small.

The last of Stefan’s breathe escaped like blown, green glass, before his eyes. And the boy finally stopped.

The forgotten note he had written to Bonnie Bennett, still crushed into his palm, slipped away under the water with what remained of Stefan’s strength. The sun, filtering through the moving facets of the lake surface, became fluid beams of gold, lighting his last paper note to Bonnie aglow as it sank like a scrap of ember.

Stefan’s last, delirious thought, as blackness began to pull at the edges of his vision, was that Bonnie Bennett would not be coming, after all.

The pain of the Vampire’s grip in his hair fell away to him as the tightness of his body’s convulsions stilled. And for a moment everything was still under the lake, like the breath before a shout.

And then Stefan was being pulled out of the water with stomach churning force. Water rushed past his ears to fall back into the water, deafening him to everything but the single sound of—

“You let him **go!”**

Stefan gasped for air, coughing as he choked on water and vomited what was left of it out. Still in the iron grip of the vampire, he turned his head, confused as to why he had been pulled out of the water. His murderer was touching his own head, his hand coming away red with blood as he looked—expression thunderous—to the shoreline.

And there stood a girl, naked as the day she was born, a rock in her hand. Her skin was dark, her hair grown just past her shoulders—shaking with her fury.

Surprise flashed across Kai’s face, displacing his anger altogether.

 “Bonnie Bennett,” Kai breathed, like a prayer.

At the sound of the name, Stefan finally, really _looked_. Could it really be—?

“Let him go!” she shouted, fists balled. Her teeth flashed in her anger as stepped forward, stance ready to fight, just shy of the waterline.

And Stefan must have been water-sick, because he could swear for just a moment, Kai looked alarmed.

Then he seemed to remember himself, the tilt of his stale smile turning smug.

“Or what?”

On the shore, Bonnie shifted on the balls of her feet with impotent intent.

Buoyed by her apparent inaction, Kai stood straighter and laughed outright, seeming to have forgotten Stefan entirely, who still hung in his grip. Bonnie Bennett balled her fists at the vampire’s mockery.

“What are you going to do?” He laughed from a distance, even as Bonnie looked from left to right, searching for a way to rescue Stefan, “fail at me?”

Stefan looked up at Kai, that strange undertone to his voice again. Like he was speaking of something only he knew of and was cruelly giddy for it.

Bonnie took a hard step forward, wetting her toes like she was prepared to swim across the water to get to Stefan. But even the boy could see that she was unsure of just what she would do—could do—to the monster that walked on water. Her jaw clenched from side to side.

“You going to swim to me, Bon Bon?” he called, his smile all teeth and no geniality.

The vampire’s fingers digging tighter into the collar of his shirt, Stefan only had a moment’s warning before they were flying across the water at a speed that stretched his skin and forced his eyes closed, like a sneeze. And in the blink of an eye, Stefan found himself ashore, looking on, aghast, as Kai loomed over Bonnie Bennett, so close that they were nearly nose to nose.

“…Or shall I come to you?” he teased darkly, a hand already squeezing around the girl’s neck as he gazed down at her.

“Bonnie!” Stefan gasped, alarmed as he watched her hands fly up to her neck where he gripped her, choking. She clawed at him, leaving desperate scratches on his skin as he squeezed the air from her throat. Blood droplets bloomed where she had ripped flesh open along Kai’s arm, but he took as much notice of it as he would a fly.

Leaning in close, Kai’s breath wafted hot across her cheek, “Why don’t you stop me?”

Bonnie flailed and scratched, gasping in vain for air. Stefan too, wrenched in Kai’s grip, hearing the fine cotton of his shirt tearing at the seams.

“You’re what, all of fourteen years old? You won’t stop me. Not yet,” he taunted, studying her face like he would a pretty china vase, eyes dropping lower to her body. Her decidedly nude body. The bump of her breasts, still developing, were yet immature to the eye.

Any other time and Stefan would have blushed red at the full realization that Bonnie Bennett was utterly naked. Not for any perverse reason, but simply for the fact that ladies were not to be seen nude, and his mother would have him skinned if she learned of the impropriety. This time however, seeing the vampire eyeing Bonnie like she was nothing more than an ornament sparked a strange anger in his chest.

It wasn’t _right._ Stefan fumed.

With a shout, Bonnie was thrown to the ground like a limp doll, a few paces away. Wheezing and gasping for air, she scrambled away on her elbows, her face red and tears forced to her eyes. Wide and fearful, she watched the man like her gaze alone might keep him from advancing on her.

“Oh don’t look at me like that, Bonnie, I may be a monster but I’m not _that_ kind of monster. Most of the time,” the vampire assured her. False honeyed promises to Stefan’s ears.

“Then let Stefan go,” She demanded, hoarse.

How the vampire knew her name, his own name, Stefan had no inkling. From the looks of it, Bonnie herself was a roil of emotions, anger and confusion crossing her face. She left them unvoiced, however, and determination returned to her eyes, displacing the fear. Her green, green eyes.

_Damon’s stories had done little justice to the exact shade of them._

Kai laughed and the sound of the leaves around them seemed to laugh with him, a pained sort of echo, like the branches did so unwillingly.

“Nice try, but no,” he apologized. It rang false as he took one step closer to Bonnie, still on the ground. She scrabbled back, eyes wide.

“Why?” she questioned, “Why kill him? He’s just a _boy.”_

Kai held up a finger, “Ah yes, but little boys grow up and turn into men, don’t they. And Saint Stefan can’t be allowed to do that.”

She stood abruptly, almost keeling over from her haste, “But he’s done nothing!”

“He will.”

Kai spoke like a promise. Like he knew.

And Stefan’s heart shrank at the words. A traitorous corner of his mind gave thought to the vampire’s words. Was it—

Could it—

Stefan’s brow furrowed as his fingers dug tighter into his sodden pant leg.

“You’re from the future,” Bonnie realized, tremulous. Upon her hands, crushed grass still clung to her palms, “you know me.”

“I will,” Kai said, like a dark oath, the grey of his eyes hungry, “but not today, Bon.”

She shrank backwards. For as much as the man promised he was not…that kind of monster, his eyes begged to differ.

Stefan lunged forward, choking himself on his collar, “Bonnie get out of here, he’s a vampire! Get Mr. Thorne! Get Dam—”

A menacing growl and a hand around his throat cut through the rest of Stefan’s warning. With his other hand, the vampire stopped Bonnie where she stood, mid stride. Like cutting the strings of a puppet.

“You won’t be going anywhere, Bon,” Kai said, matter of fact as he lifted Stefan by the throat and turned to face him, “and _you_ and _I_ have unfinished business.”

Stefan’s legs dangled and kicked, hopeless, as they started towards the water once more.

“No, no, no,no—“ he wheezed.

“No, stop!” Bonnie shouted, immobilized, sounding wrecked, “stop, please!”

Kai ignored her, stepping back onto the water, “I’ve always wanted an audience, how about you?”

His eyes widened in an exaggerated imitation of excitement to Stefan and the boy began to cry. This was it. This was _really it._ Even Bonnie wouldn’t be able to save him this time.

The sound of the water sloshing beneath him as he was dragged out to the middle of the lake again fell away to his numb ears. Bonnie, screaming his name from the shore, her hair wild with her desperate attempts to free herself, was all that he could hear anymore until that too, began to fall away.

“Stefan, no! Don’t give up!” she pleaded.

But he was done with fighting. His muscles burned and his body ached, trembled with all the strength it no longer had. There was no winning against a vampire, let alone a vampire warlock. Instead, Stefan turned his face up at the man. They had returned from where they had come, and Kai lowered Stefan’s head into the water once again, fingers gripping his hair hard. The boy tried not to hyperventilate.

 _“Am I…”_ he started, his breaths too shallow, “… _will I_ really do bad things?”

And Kai looked down at him, his blue-grey gaze like chips of stone in their cold certainty.

“Yes.”

The odd heartbreak in his chest  was the only thing he felt, even as his face was pushed under the surface of the water, going up his nose and into his mouth. He was—would grow—to be a bad man who did bad things.  He thought of it even as the verdant taste of the lake water pressed into his airway and he coughed and choked and his body raged to breathe even if he knew it to be of no use.

Even as he heard Bonnie’s screams, like she was tearing herself apart as she was forced to watch him drown, Stefan thought to himself that maybe, just maybe…

This wasn’t the worst thing that could happen. Better him than Damon.

As his chest grew heavy with water and his vision dark, Stefan’s last conscious thought was a muffled, hysterical, oxygen deprived thing—the absent concern that he had never gotten the chance to apologize to Bonnie Bennett.

For what, exactly, he wasn’t entirely sure. Something like regret floated about his chest. As regretful as a seven year old could be.

And apologizing was just something gentlemen did.

Stefan closed his eyes and stopped breathing.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_At the corner of his closed eyes, Stefan was vaguely aware of the open vortex still above the lake. Except all was quiet, and under the water it was black. Yet he did not fear this black as he usually would. He felt strangely empty of it, of fear. Of pain._

_Above him where the surface of the water would have been, stretched a starry sky, like spilled salt on an infinite blanket of the blackest, finest Venetian velvet. It twinkled and shined like a million pin pricks, bleeding starlight._

_It was silent. It was chaos._

_“What do we all do in the embrace of a dying sun? In the orbit of a star after it has no warmth left to give?”_

_The voice was a man’s: deep, warm, and soothing. Stefan had the impression of a hand on a shoulder. A comfort._

_“We fall,” came another man’s voice, determined and devastated all at once._

_“We fall,” The first voice repeated, impossibly calm amidst destruction, “so fall into her, brother. As you have always done.”_

_Their voices echoed unnaturally, as if in a dream._

_A turn of a head. A pair of familiar, blue eyes, wet with longing._

_“But I can’t—I can’t do it alone. I can’t ask you to leave….but I can’t save her on my own. ”_

_The second man was wrecked with his regret, a burning shame. His hand, low at his hip, was meekly outstretched in his unspoken plea. As if he expected it to be rejected. As if he knew he did not deserve it._

_All that was chased away by the solid warmth of another hand curling into his. A palm the same size as his own, rough and smooth._

_“Are you asking?”_

_There was the lightness of a tease in first man’s voice. A long buried hope, come alive._

_“I am.”_

_A nervous swallow. An acceptance. A love._

_“Then I would fall forever, Damon, if it meant I’d still be with you.”_

_Stefan startled at the sound of his brother’s name upon a stranger’s lips. There in the starlight of his drowning, Stefan felt a strange flutter in his chest, too much like the tugging of wakefulness from deep sleep._

_The thread of dreamers and of fate was never a light thing to bear. And now he was sewn, a silver and painless needle melting into his heart. This, he somehow knew._

_At the corner of Stefan’s eye, the magic portal above the lake pulsed with silent whispers, and all was black once more._

 

 

* * *

 

 

Kai really should have known that it wouldn’t be that easy.

As Stefan’s small body gave in and stilled, Kai had spared a glance at Bonnie Bennett on the shore.

She had stopped entirely.

Tears stained her mottled, red cheeks, and her scream died on her lips as she looked on, horrified. No longer cursing him, or fighting his spell-hold upon her, Bonnie’s face was bloodless as Kai let the boy’s body slip into the lake and sink beneath the surface of the water, now strangely calm.

Around him, the leaves of the trees stilled. The breath of the wind, stolen.

For a moment, Kai was sure that Bonnie would keel over and die as well. She looked well on her way, disbelief and grief warring on her face. Even from where he stood across the water, he could see her shaking violently, her eyes still fixed to the rippling water where Stefan had been. Her weak heart seemed about ready to give way entirely from the way it beat.

All in all, Kai really should have known that his luck would run out.

Because her shaking changed from denial, to anguish, to pure, devastating _fury._   Kai had already allowed himself a small smile at her expense, a barbed taunt on the tip of his tongue before he recognized the growing, familiar pattern of her beating heart.

Kai’s breath stilled. He knew this pattern of Bonnie’s heart like he knew his own. It was the only way it beat for him anymore.

By the time he realized just what was coming, it was all he could do to duck and throw up a haphazard shield with a shouted curse.

Bonnie _screamed._

The blue burst of his magic barely saved the tips of his ears before the force of Bonnie’s deafening fury ripped its way from the shore across the lake, radiating from where she knelt in the silty soil. Kai squeezed his eyes shut and braced himself, feeling his spell-hold over Bonnie shatter from the power of her raw magic.

Branches snapped, water blew back, and the trunks of the surrounding trees groaned as they bent under the force of Bonnie Bennett. A leaf whipped passed Kai’s face and slashed open a shallow wound upon his cheekbone.

 Kai cursed his stupidity.

Rarely was magic visible, tangible, so it spoke to Bonnie’s power that he could smell the bite of it on the air, sharp and electric like the wind after the strike of lightning. He could even _taste_ her magic on his tongue, seeping into every pore of his being, spiced sweet and metallic, bitter and almond-like—clear and indescribable. Kai choked on it, his mouth suddenly dry.

When the initial shockwave of Bonnie’s magic had cleared, Kai was on his feet in an instant, watching as the remaining flash of golden light faded from Bonnie’s eyes—devastating and furious.

She charged at him, buoyed by the rush of potent magic now flowing through her veins. Even now, Kai could feel the difference in her, coursing through her blood, like the floodgates had been thrown open before their time and now it was all Bonnie could do to channel it with the sheer force of her rage.

At the edge of the lake, Kai watched as his last remaining hope of keeping his distance vanished. Stride never faltering, Bonnie brought forth both of her hands, fingers like claws and slashed downward with a roar.

The water of the lake parted with a crack like thunder, foaming and violent. Walls of water, as high as the tallest tower, flew apart at her command.

_If she could not walk on water, she would make her own way._

Kai’s eyes widened.

For there laid the small crumple of Stefan at the bottom of the lake.

Bonnie rushed forward, as fast as any witch Kai had ever seen, not allowing the bare soles of her feet to be hindered by the muddied bottom of the crater-lake. With deft grace, she scooped Stefan into her arms, pressing her forehead to his with an indescribable expression, uncaring of his sodden clothes soaking her through—or his apparent lifelessness.

Kai heard little over the roaring of the water, but he saw her lips forming the same desperate words repeatedly, over and over. Like a prayer.

Not letting the chance get away from him, Kai whipped his fingers before his lips before he brutally pushed his palm downwards at the water, as if to crush.

If Bonnie wanted to fight he could fight.

_“Sentiñ!”_

Bonnie’s head whipped up, her green eyes finding his.

Kai shuddered.

In haste, he finished his spell, tongue forming the strange-familiar words with an intimate sort of knowledge.

_“Sioulded kouezhañ!”_

  In an instant, the walls of the lake water came crashing down, rushing back at Bonnie and Stefan from all angles. The last he saw of Bonnie’s expression was shock, before her dark head of hair was covered by meters of water. Gritting his teeth, Kai was determined to drown them both. He slammed to his knees and pressed both of his palms to the water’s surface, concentrating all his power into his hands.

His brow furrowed, resolute.

Ice, deadly and chill, spread from his hands like winter-frost upon glass, rapidly freezing the surface of the lake from where he stood. Under his bare feet, Kai could feel the nigh-painful sting of ice on his skin, but he ignored it, focusing on the release of his magic through his hands, cold and unforgiving.

The lake hissed as it gradually froze over with Kai’s unnatural magic, white steam curling into the air before it solidified into an icy surface. The lake was not nearly as clear as it had been before, but it was enough that Kai could still see the water below his layer of ice, tempestuous.

When Kai finally removed his hands from the solid surface of the lake, his eyes swept the area for any sign of Bonnie below, tense and nervous.

 And then he felt it—

Pounding from below upon the ice, her eyes wide, Bonnie had surfaced in vain.

Only then did Kai let out the breath he had been holding, a little too much like relief for his liking. Stepping over to stand above Bonnie, he looked down on her fruitless struggles and caught her in his fervent gaze.

Even through the water Kai could still see the green of her eyes, bright with fear but determined. To his ears, her heart beat like a trapped rabbit’s, so light and quick he thought it might burst. In her arms laid Stefan. Kai’s lips lifted in victory.

“This is it, Bon,” he smiled down at her as he knelt on the ice, almost benevolent as he laid his hand flat on the cold separating her from him. Her dark hair swirled in front of her face.

It was a mockery of affection, her knuckles bloody against the bottom of the ice as he laughed with his hand above it. Kai lowered his face, staring down at Bonnie like she was his dark reflection in the water. A single, mad thought of Narcissus and his cursed love crossed his mind.

Dry lips brushed against the ice. Kai’s smile was like a knife wound.

“Give in.”

Bonnie’s eyes widened and her mouth opened, releasing the last of her precious air in a curse Kai could not hear. He watched Bonnie reach behind her and touch something below her left shoulder. Kicking away from the ice, her dark hair streamed past her face as she sank deeper and deeper into the lake until he could see her no more.

For a moment, triumph swelled in the emptiness of his chest. And then the impossible happened.

Kai had utterly no warning before the ice broke before him.

A shining, silver blade burst through the surface of the lake, the tip pointed skyward and a dark hand wrapped tight around the grip. Water and ice rained down on him, crystalline and cold, before he realized just what it was.

A sword.

It was a _sword._

Bonnie surged through the rest of the surface, Stefan held in one arm and the silver sword in the wielded in the other. Buoyed on a twisting jet of water and ice, Kai looked up and saw her towering down at him, her eyes aglow as she gasped for breath and bore down on him. And for a moment, it seemed like the water clothed her, green and glittering in the sun as it swirled around her body like the folds of the richest robe. Tendrils of her wet hair flew about her face and atop her bare shoulders.

Despite his enhanced reflexes, Kai stumbled back, mouth slack. His hand was up, spell in his fist to defend himself, but—

She flourished the sword with a strong hand, wielding the silver blade like she’d done so a hundred times before, and **_severed_** his hand clean from his wrist.

Like cutting through water, blood rushed forth.

Kai screamed as he’d never before, grasping the bleeding stump of his wrist as his severed hand skidded across the ice to shore. He bared his teeth and fell to a knee, the white hot pain immobilizing him momentarily. His own blood ran sticky and thick down his face from where he’d bled upon himself.

And then Kai felt the tip of the sword digging sharp into his throat. Instinctually, he bared his neck, lifting his chin to look up at Bonnie—the young witch that had come into her power altogether unexpectedly. The blooded blade scraped at his stubble, quiet metal tones ringing up the length as it caught on his chin.

 For a moment, all he did was look upon her, overwhelmed. Glistening with it, water slid down Bonnie's skin, dripping from her outstretched arm. Kai watched a drop fall from the tip of her nose.

His chest heaved as he seethed in pain. Nearly drowned and coming down from the high of her burst of power, Bonnie’s chest rose and fell just as rapidly.

“You will leave the way you came,” she demanded, cheeks flush with her victory, “or I’ll take more than a hand, next.”

The dark edge of her queenly command, very much a threat, pulled a genuine smile from Kai’s lips even as he winced in pain, holding his arm in a punishing grip. Something dawned amidst the empty malice in his eyes. Something akin to adoration.

“Is that a promise?” he asked, voice rough. Kai looked up at Bonnie through his lashes, and grunted as the sword pressed harder into his skin, nicking it open. A drop of blood trailed lazily down his neck, stark crimson amidst his pale skin.

“It is,” Bonnie snarled, leaning in.

“Then,” biting back another groan of pain, Kai’s smile became more like a showing of teeth, “it is as my Lady of the Lake commands.”

And then he was gone, a dark blur flashing through the portal before the magical vortex swallowed itself in a matter of moments, dispelling the mist and the cold.

Like it had never been there.

Almost instantly, the sword in Bonnie’s hands fell with a harsh metal clatter onto the cracked ice. She braced Stefan’s body and leaned him back so she could see him, lowering him to the ice.

“Stefan!” she shouted in alarm, finally allowing herself to panic, “Stefan, no _no no...”_

Cradling his head, Bonnie checked him for signs of life, of breath and a heartbeat—and found none. Her chest seized in grief and dread.

“No, Stefan, you can’t—you can’t—”

She cut herself off as she ran Stefan to shore, forcing herself to calm. To remember. To save a life.

Gently, she laid Stefan out on the solid ground, tilted his head back to clear his airway and leaned down to give him two breaths. Her lungs burned from more than just the air she’d just given Stefan, but she held back—forced herself to hold her tears at bay—as she locked her arms and compressed his chest, gasping out the numbers as she fought to bring Stefan back.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When Stefan finally came to, it was with a mouth full of warm, lake water and to the face of Bonnie Bennett hovering above his, the halo of the sun directly behind her, crowning her head in golden light.

So he was rightly horrified when a stream of water shot from his mouth into his savior’s face. She shouted in surprise as he turned over and coughed his lungs out. Hand beating his chest, he cried out at the pain there, like someone had repeatedly stomped on him.

“Hey, hey! You’re OK, don’t worry, you’re alright.” Bonnie assured him in gentle, insistent tones, a hand holding his steady as he vomited water. The lake lapped at his toes.

It was a miserable few minutes before Stefan could do anything but spasm and ache and feel like he was dying—

Except he knew what dying felt like. It was water and darkness and starlight.

Not aches, grass, and…Bonnie Bennett.

Stefan sat up with a shout—too quickly from the way his head spun—but he was alight with urgency.

Desperate to know that he hadn’t just imagined her.

That he hadn’t just dreamed up that Bonnie Bennett had come to _him_ and saved his life. _Again._

His arms flew out and grasped at Bonnie’s arms, clumsy.

“Hey! It’s alright, I’m here—”

“Bonnie Bennett—” he breathed, eyes wide.

“Yes Stefan—”

“Miss Bonnie Bennett—” he repeated, mindless, eyes widening as the dark skin of her form arm held solid under his fingers.

“Yes Stef—!”

“Bonnie Bedivere Bennett—” Stefan mumbled again, eyes growing wider.

Bonnie grasped his shoulders in a tight, reassuring grip and shook him.

“Stefan! Are you alright?” Bonnie shouted, her eyes concerned and wide, as if she feared that he’d come back to consciousness somehow _wrong_. His brown-green eyes refocused onto her. Clarity passed over his expression.

“You saved me,” he whispered, looking at the hero of his stories, “of course I am.”

Bonnie looked taken aback.

And then she crushed the boy to her chest, heaving a wet sob of relief, her face pressed into the damp mess of Stefan’s mop of hair, drying in the sun.

Shocked at the strange open affection of Bonnie, Stefan tensed for an instant before he relaxed into her embrace. Her arms, wiry with lean muscle, were like Damon’s. Strong, a result of continuous training. Stefan blinked, his lashes catching on the damp skin of her chest.

“Oh, Stefan, I thought you’d died,” she breathed onto the crown of his head.

His lips thinning, Stefan did not voice that he had thought so as well. Tears stung his eyes. His bottom lip quivered, and as if she knew, Bonnie held pulled him closer to her. The comforting warmth from her body banished the chill of his drenched, ruined clothes.

It was only then that Stefan finally glanced at his surroundings, at the broken branches littering the ground and the fallen leaves a mess upon the long grass. Some of the smaller, younger trees even laid uprooted. Pulling away from Bonnie’s arms, which she allowed with reluctance, Stefan’s eyes found Bonnie’s. He rubbed the thigh of his pants absently.

“Did you,” he began, biting his lower lip, “did you do this?”

He looked around the veritable battlefield around them. Inexplicable ice sheets floated on the surface of the water, already melting in the warmth of the lake. His hazel eyes caught on a massive hole in the ice near the center of the lake, where it seemed the ice had fractured into the pieces they laid in now.

And there, half in the water and half on the ice, was a large silver sword.

Bonnie looked at him, sensing his growing wariness. For as grateful as he was, full of wonder and childish hero worship, Stefan had tasted magic for the first time today—and it had choked him and killed him.

Nearly.

“I thought… you were dead,” she repeated, glancing away, like that itself was an explanation.

She unfolded herself from Stefan and stood, a little unsteady, as she waded her into the water until it covered her ankles. Facing away from him, Bonnie reached behind her head and touched her left shoulder.

Abruptly, Stefan noticed that Bonnie had two markings upon her back, one on each should blade. Tattoos, Stefan recalled, like the native savages to the south were rumored to have. On her left shoulder, a simple black line marked her skin; on her right, a black circle. When Bonnie touched her hand to the line, it shimmered alive into gold.

 Stefan gasped.

The sword that had been on the ice vanished into light and reappeared into Bonnie’s hand. It glinted brilliant in the sunlight, wet with water… an angry red stripe across the silver of it. With a dip of the blade beneath the lake’s water, once again like glass, the blood washed away.

Bonnie turned to look at Stefan over her shoulder, the damp ends of her hair clinging to her face and shoulders. Her expression was inscrutable.

“My Grams spelled this marking to bring forth any instrument or weapon I might need, in a time of dire danger,” she explained, turning the shining sword back and forth in her hand, “but it’s never worked for me…before today.”

Bonnie touched the black line on her shoulder once again, and the sword disappeared from her hands. Stefan swallowed.

“You are magic,” he realized, grave, “you’re a witch.”

She must have heard something like an accusation in his voice because her expression fell and she rushed back to him, on her knees.

“Look Stefan, I didn’t know before today—” she cut herself off abruptly, searching for the right words, “—whatever you’ve heard about witches and warlocks, you have to believe me that they aren’t all wicked and evil. My mother was a witch. My grandmother is too.”

Her earnest expression was almost pleading as his small hand reached up touch his own neck, the tender skin there no doubt already purpling into a ring of bruises. If he closed his eyes, Stefan could still feel the vampire—Kai—squeezing the life from him like he would a wet, cotton rag. Stefan looked away from Bonnie, doubting.

Mr. Callum and Father said differently.

“Hey,” Bonnie called quietly, turning his rounded face up at her with a gentle touch brush of her fingers under his chin, “do you think _I’m_ evil?”

It was a pointed question, and her eyebrows rose with emphasis. Her touch was an echo of Kai’s, who had grabbed Stefan’s chin with brute force. Bonnie did it with concern, careful of the small cuts to his face. Careful not to hurt him.

In the clear green of her eyes, flecked with gold in the dark of her irises, Stefan found his answer. The knot in his chest eased.

“No,” he finally said, “no I do not.”

“And do you trust me?” she asked, insistent.

Only two years ago, Stefan would have thought Bonnie an angel, or a fairy, and everyone knew not to trust fairies. Now he knew better, that such things—if they did exist—were not Bonnie Bennett. She was a witch.

Upon the warm, dark rose of her cheeks, Stefan eyed the splash of blood that was not her own. Naked, tattooed, and baptized in lake water and crimson, Stefan would have taken one look at her and ran screaming for town—not two hours ago.

But this was Bonnie Bennett. The girl that he had been writing to for the past two years. The girl that fit, not in a proper blue coat or in shining boots with silver buckles, but in her own skin—wielding a sword in one hand and magic in the other. She had protected him from a wendigo, from a vampire, and dragged him from the lake and back to life.

Of course he trusted her.

“Yes.”

 Bonnie nodded, her expression determined, a trace of relief at the corner of her lips.

“Then we have to hurry. I don’t know how much time I have or if that vampire will return—”

She turned to look over her shoulder at the lake, a hardness in her gaze. A warm breeze curled into the black of Bonnie’s hair, reddish in the full sunlight.

“—but I must have been sent to you for a reason.”

Stefan’s brow knotted in question.

“What?”

Bonnie shook head in absent thought, “I’ve only appeared to your brother before, to Damon. But for some reason I came to _you_. I don’t know how much longer I have, but you have to listen to me. And then you have to go back home.”

“Wait, no,” Stefan reach out and grasped Bonnie’s hand, “you’ll return with me, right? You can tell them everything you saw, Damon will want to see y—”

“Stefan!”

Bonnie shook the boy out of his rambling, with a hand on his shoulder, her face as serious as he’d ever seen her.

“You’ve only just come, you have to come back with me—” he insisted, louder as he floundered for a reason she would stay.

“Stefan, listen!” Bonnie shouted over him, frustrated, “I have news from the future and you have to _listen to me_. It’s about you. It’s about _Damon.”_

That shut him up. Stefan’s head snapped up from where he had been glaring into Bonnie’s elbow. Something in her voice caught his ear—alarmed him.

“My brother? Damon?” he whispered, suddenly serious, “what happens to him?”

Briefly, his mind flew back to the vampire Kai’s words. How he had said, had promised, that Stefan would grow to be a man who did bad things. Even now, the thought made him feel sick. But if he was a bad man, Stefan had to know what that meant for his brother, for _Damon._

Bonnie looked around in hesitation, like she was wary that someone—something, was listening

“Tell your mother, tell Mr. Thorne, tell anyone who will listen that in 186—”

Bonnie suddenly turned her face away with a hiss, her face in her hand, fingers bloody. Her eyes were wide, in pain, desperate.

Stefan froze.

And then she vanished.

Stefan panicked.

“Bonnie?” he called, not believing the trickery of his eyes as he stood on shaky legs, “Bonnie!”

She was just here! She had been sitting with him, beside the lake, and then suddenly, she simply wasn’t.

“Bonnie! _Bonnie!”_

He whipped his head round and round again, scanning the trees, the lake, the forest, the estate—

And there, running from the house to him were three figures. His mother, her black curls streaming behind her. Damon, still in his training gear. And Mr. Thorne, who ran swifter and further than any of them.

But they were not the one he was looking for.

And when they finally found him by the lakeside, Stefan was still calling for her. For Bonnie.

It would take another two hours to calm him completely.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The sun slipped halfway between the edge of the world and a starlit void, painting the sky in bruised, burned colors. Beautiful to most.

But not to Thorne. Not this evening.

Tonight, it was too near a reminder of just what young Stefan had survived. He had been too pale when they’d found him, lifting him into his mother’s arms. The boy’s skin had seemed so thin it had been nearly translucent, the vulnerable blue of his veins too visible on his wrists. And round his neck, cruelly pressed in his skin, was a ring of black and purple that had spread in the sinister shape of fingers. They were the kind of bruises that promised to deepen by midday tomorrow, and seep into the bones of Stefan’s memories, from then onwards.

The boy had been alone, his shirt ripped and ruined, muddy and soaked.

Thorne grit his teeth and turned his face towards the rippling surface of the lake, stepping towards the water.

Stefan had been so close to death’s door. He had rattled the heavy, iron knob and stepped a foot through.

The water cast the reflection of Thorne’s face in cruel shades, and in the mirror of the water, his brown eyes seemed to be lit from within.

The man inhaled.

All around him he could smell the remnants of a cloaking spell. A masterful one at that. A Gemini cloaking spell. It was the reason why no one had seen what had been going on at the lake, why no one had heard the horrors met upon Stefan.  It was a calculated move that spoke of nefarious intent. The warlock had meant to murder to Stefan and frame it as an accident in the water.

But where Evaine Dulaac’s Gemini spell had been a clean work of art, brutally efficient in her spellwork’s edges and form, full of the same restraint that characterized the woman herself… this cloaking spell was different.

It had a stench to it. The magic was an unnaturally shapen thing, chaotic and forced into being with incredible power. It did the job, undeniably so. But anyone who knew anything about magic would have been able to discern that whoever had cast the cloaking spell had little study of the art, and little discipline. He simply had the power, the malice, and will to wield it.

But if what Stefan had said was true—that the warlock was also a vampire—that complicated things further.

Looking down, Thorne stepped over to the severed limb of the vampire—still in the same spot that it had been when he had first spotted it. Toeing the stiff thumb of it with his boot, Thorne’s eyes narrowed.

The hand floated upward into the air until it he had it at eye level. Lifting his chin, Thorne examined the extremity with a sharp eye. Yes, he could smell the death off it. But it was also laced with magic he had not encountered before, sickly sweet. A hybrid of some sort.

It was a young man’s hand, not lined by age or rough work. The fingernails were neatly trimmed, if a bit bitten back by habit. The cut that had severed the hand was impossibly clean, made by a blade that was finely sharpened. And within the cold palm,  written just under the skin, traces remained of the spell it was meant to unleash, before it was met with a swift end. Thorne pressed his thumb to the dead hand and his lip curled in recognition of what energy remained.

Dark magic. Very dark.

Thorne wore a grim expression as he touched a fingertip to the severed wrist, thick with coagulated blood and beginning to stink of rot. With a smear, the swordmaster brought the finger between his lips, tasting it.

Acrid and biting to the tongue, Thorne separated the taste of decay away from the iron tang of blood and magic. He closed his eyes.

_Yes._

There, a barest shadow of a trace, Thorne tasted something he had not for two years. This vampire had not worked alone.

His eyes opened and they were no longer the eyes of a human. The slit of his pupils, a slash of black upon a crown of tempered fire, shifted like molten rock.

Thorne blinked again and the brown flickered back.

Another Dimension Witch had been born. And she had found the vampire hybrid and sent him to murder Stefan Salvatore.

Rocky soil crunched under Thorne’s boot as he turned, the vampire’s hand bursting into flames behind him. It hung in the air like a macabre lantern until, like candlelight under breath, it was no more. Pungent smoke from the burnt flesh filled his nostrils and would have turned his stomach if he were a lesser man.

As it stood, Thorne was not even a man at all. The broad expanse of his shoulders rolled, indifferent.

He knew not what it all meant, but there were larger powers at play. Sparing a dark look to the west, Thorne’s gaze cut across the lake once more to the litter of branches and leaves upon the ground, trailing from water, to the barge stilled moored on the shore. And there, his eye slid to the to the point of magic that still shined the brightest amidst the ugly dark that had been spelled here. It stood stark, like the white of bone stuck in the viscous slick of tar.

The feel of her, of _Bonnie_ , still clung to the branches, to the rocks, far into the water and deep into the soil. Whatever she had done, had wielded to save Stefan—it had left it’s indelible mark.

A wind swept in from the east, whipping Thorne’s loose hair about his face. For a moment, the long grasses and the trees seemed to bow.

 _“En garde,_ Bonnie Bennett,” Thorne spoke to the wind, his voice rumbling and low, _“je vous remercie,”_

And from the waist, the swordmaster bent low with the gale, following suit.

 _“Et ave,”_ he whispered to the air. To Bonnie Bennett.

 _Nova_ witch.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all, I am so _sooo_ sorry for the unforgivable delay in update! In penance, this chapter was extra long for all of you, so I hope its enough to earn (a little) forgiveness? This one was definitely heavy on plot progression, introducing new developments, new characters, new threats, and the over-arching story arc and mythology that will take us all the way to the end. I hope it wasn't too hard to follow, but let me know if it was. Kai is here (AHHHHH), Damon is being trained as a hunter, and Bonnie's magic has manifested early! Poor, poor Stefan may have accidentally slotted into the damsel-in-distress role, and I am so (not) sorry, but he is going to be such a traumatized little boy. All in all this was definitely a busy one! I'm only sorry it took so long to get out. I'm hoping to get the next chapter out sooner than I did this one, so fingers crossed. I apologize for any mistakes, I was in a bit of a rush to get this out!
> 
> Thank you to all who wrote me comments and gave me kudos! The overwhelming support I get from you is really, _really_ so encouraging, and I can't thank you all enough for reading and taking the time to give me feedback!
> 
> Y'all are absolutely the shit.
> 
>  
> 
> French Translations
> 
>  **En garde** \- warning phrase often spoken at the beginning of a fencing dual, literally meaning "on guard", meant to prepare the other party for defense
> 
>  **Je vous remercie** \- roughly meaning "I thank you"
> 
>  **Et** \- meaning "and"
> 
>  
> 
> Latin Translations 
> 
> **Ave** \- meaning "hail", a solemn and respectful salute
> 
>  **Nova** \- meaning "new"


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